Corrupt Savior

by Leigh, Tara

  After a small sigh, she reluctantly meets my gaze. “Are you leaving me behind, too?” Discomfort is etched into her pursed lips and narrowed eyes. I can see how hard it is for Findley to ask the question.

  I hesitate from surprise, not reluctance. “No,” I answer after a long moment. Because one side of my brain acknowledges the tentative beginnings of a friendship between us, and I don’t want to throw that away.

  Meanwhile, the political strategist side of me knows it’s a smart idea. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I can’t forget that someone in Damon’s organization—a woman—is still a threat. A woman that could very well be my new friend.

  Finley holds my stare and then finally nods. “Forget the hotel,” she says loudly, directing her voice at the driver. “We’re going to my place.”

  “What—”

  “I work all the time, you can have it mostly to yourself. Figure out what you want to do with your life. And every once in a while, we can have dinner together. Or whatever.”

  Her words are a spontaneous jumble and I look at her curiously. “Did Damon put you up to this?”

  “No. But girlfriends are supposed to be there for each other, especially after a breakup.” She shrugs, her fingers drumming against her thighs. “I don’t really know from personal experience or anything but that’s what seems to happen in every rom-com, anyway.”

  “You watch rom-coms?” I ask, a brow edging upward.

  She picks at an invisible piece of lint along her inseam. “Maybe.”

  I cover her hand with one of my own, putting a stop to her nervous fidgeting. “Thank you. I’d like that. Just—please tell me you have ice cream.” Her brows lift. “And vodka. Or tequila. Alcohol of some kind.”

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  It’s time to find out if Finley is a friend or foe.

  42

  DAMON

  I need a drink. Whiskey, neat. Times ten.

  A priest. An exorcism.

  A brain surgeon. A lobotomy.

  Someone—some way—to erase the memory of Aislinn from my mind, her honeyed scent from my olfactory senses, the sweet tartness of her pussy from my taste buds.

  Expunge the feel of her velvety smooth skin, the gentle rise of her curves, the tight, wet clench of her around my cock.

  Eradicate the spun gold of her hair and the deep ocean blue of her eyes from my corneas.

  Obliterate the twinkling sound of her laugh and her desperate, needy moans from my ears.

  Of course, there is more to Aislinn Granville than my five senses can absorb. There is the bristling fierceness of her personality as she challenges my authority. The unwavering loyalty she exhibits to those she loves. The wide streak of courage that runs through her like a steel beam.

  And I want all of it—all of her—gone.

  Gone.

  Except I don’t. Not really.

  Fuck. Not at all.

  I want her fucking back. In my life. In my apartment.

  In my arms.

  And, I swear to fucking God, I will never let her go again.

  But that emotion, that unbridled need, is exactly what I am desperate to avoid.

  I should know—I led with my emotions once before. I allowed my heart to override my head when I sought revenge on my stepfather. The result: I was sent to jail and my mother wound up in the morgue.

  I will not make the same mistake again.

  I will approach this situation as if it’s a goddamn business school case study. Facts. Data. Details.

  I cannot think about Aislinn as a person I lo—

  My mind slams shut like a trapdoor on the four-letter word. Love. It is as welcome in my world as a bout of polio.

  Love is weakness.

  Obviously.

  It’s been a week since Aislinn left, and she took my strength with her.

  Because I’m a mess. An unfocused, unmotivated mess.

  Just like Granville. Without his daughter to use as his personal pawn, he is a mess too. Lytton’s absence has plunged his office into chaos.

  Which has actually worked out just fine for me.

  I have also managed to scrutinize every single one of my employees, male and female. Which only further confirmed that Sebastián Cruz was bullshitting me about a goddamn mole. Dick.

  “What?” I snap at Burke when he pokes his head around the door to my office. He doesn’t react; this is my new normal.

  “Davina sent details on—”

  “You and Finley can handle it.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Where the fuck is—”

  But I stop myself mid-growl. Finley is with Aislinn. She’s been spending a lot of time with Aislinn lately. A lot of time that she’s not here.

  I wish I could pretend that the viscous stew churning inside my gut is anger.

  But it’s not, and lying to myself won’t make it so.

  It’s jealousy, plain and simple.

  “Fine.” I spin my chair around and turn my attention to the file Davina uploaded to our server. Another victim. Another abusive asshole. Three young kids. The report includes hospital reports, audio files of 911 calls, financial details, her own observations. “Christ,” I mutter, catching a note about the twelve-year-old daughter receiving treatment for gonorrhea. She refused to name her father as her rapist, but since the mother received treatment for the same strain, it is obvious.

  “Yeah. This is a bad one.”

  “Why the fuck isn’t this guy in jail?”

  “He’s a cop.”

  I let out a stream of unintelligible curses. “Where are the mother and kids?”

  “Davina got ’em out this morning. They’re in one of our apartments for now, but we need to move fast with them.”

  “Gimme a couple of hours to work on the financials. Do we have new IDs?”

  “Yeah, Finley took care of it before she left.”

  “You’re keeping track of the husband?”

  “He’s working a shift right now. I talked to a contact in his precinct and he’s going to be assigned overtime.”

  “How long?”

  “As long as we need.”

  I nod. “I’ll let you know when things are taken care of on my end.”

  Burke throws me a bloodthirsty leer. “You’ll feel better once this scum isn’t breathing.”

  I won’t. But if I do, it will only be fleeting.

  I don’t even want to feel better. Wallowing in misery is preferable.

  I lost the only good thing in my life. My bright light. My sunshine. My spitfire.

  My goddess. My queen.

  I’d forfeit my empire to get Aislinn back.

  That is, if I deserved her.

  But I don’t. She’s better off without me.

  I might be a corrupt motherfucker, but I will not tarnish the shiny jewel that is Aislinn Granville.

  Technically, Aislinn King.

  She is still my wife.

  Neither of us have severed the connection that now exists only on paper.

  Groaning, I hack into the asshole’s bank accounts. Even if we kill him, it will be easier if all assets are transferred to his wife’s new identity. His kids shouldn’t have to stand by their father’s grave, crying any more tears over the man that caused them so much pain. Let them start a new life somewhere, have a fresh start.

  That’s what Aislinn deserves too. She left her ring behind, along with the cell phone and laptop I gave her. I’m not tracking her movements anymore. Could I find out if she got a new phone, a new computer, a new apartment? Yes. Could I track her credit card and social media activity? Yes.

  I could.

  But I don’t.

  For the first time in over a decade, I have no idea what Aislinn is doing or where she is going. Finley swore that she would keep an eye on Aislinn, not because I asked her to, and I am trusting her.

  It’s driving me insane.

  43

  AISLINN

  �
��I’m home!” Finley’s voice echoes throughout her Lower East Side loft. According to her, the building was an old factory that had been managed by a slumlord and left to rot. Finley bought it from foreclosure, renovated it, and now has the entire top floor to herself.

  I haven’t yet decided whether her refusal to live in one of Damon’s buildings is suspicious, or just fitting with her independent nature.

  “Hey.” I lift my hand from the depths of her oversized sectional and wave. It’s where I’ve spent most of the day. Most of every day for the week I’ve been here.

  I roll out of bed in the morning, spend an hour or two with my mother, who may or may not acknowledge my presence, change back into sweats and am couch-surfing by noon.

  “Are you hungry? Mrs. Weathersby was taking a batch of oatmeal raisin right out of the oven just before I left. The raisins are still warm.”

  My nose twitches at the scent of cinnamon and sugar, but my stomach twists in protest. “No, thanks.” My diet is primarily ice cream washed down with vodka these days. I wouldn’t recommend it.

  But Finley plops down beside me and pushes a cookie at my face anyway. “Eat this. We need to talk.”

  I take it reluctantly, biting off a small piece. “What’s wrong?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. A few nights of moping on the couch and watching sappy movies is more than enough.”

  I cough on a fleck of oatmeal. “Fine. I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Finley rolls her eyes and tosses a black leather bag in my lap.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s your get out of jail card.”

  I frown in confusion, setting the cookie I didn’t want on the end table. “What are you talking about?”

  “In there is everything you need to start a new life. New identity. Plenty of cash. Login code to a bank account with enough money to set you up for life—anywhere in the world.”

  I pull open the zipper in shocked silence, quickly discovering physical proof of Finley’s statement. “Why are you giving this to me?”

  “You were leaving when Cruz’s men took you. I’m just giving you what you want.”

  That morning I walked out of Damon’s apartment … I just wanted some space. Some room to breathe.

  “I live here,” I insist. “My life is here.”

  She snorts. “Really? That’s what you call it?”

  The truth hurts. And so does Finley’s exasperated delivery. “I—”

  Before I can continue, she exhales and falls back against the couch cushions. “I’m sorry. I just … I hate watching you disintegrate like this. What happened to the woman who started a fire in a locked room?”

  “She was a stupid girl,” I mumble.

  “No. She was brave enough to go after what she wanted. And strong enough to take risks. I liked that woman. More importantly, I respected her.”

  “No, you didn’t. You hated her.” Strangely, talking about myself in the third person doesn’t feel wrong. Because I feel completely disconnected from the person I was. I am split into two.

  “I wanted to be her, Aislinn,” Finley says, shaking her head. “My sister, the badass.”

  If I was surprised by the bag on my lap, I am floored by what I just heard. I pause for a moment. “Your … what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “But—I don’t understand.”

  “Ace is my father, too.”

  From the time I was old enough to sit on Santa’s lap until I outgrew the holiday tradition altogether, there was only one thing I ever truly wanted. Sure, I asked for various dolls and toys. But at the top of every list, my most fervent wish—a sister.

  My mother would take the piece of paper from my hands with a wobbly smile. I’ll send this to the North Pole right away.

  On Christmas morning there would be toys and candy and clothes. But never a sister.

  I must have been the only little girl who didn’t like Santa Claus.

  And now, after all this time, to discover I have a sister…

  I’m heartbroken.

  And angry.

  And hurt.

  Not just because Finley clearly wants me to leave. But that she doesn’t want to get to know me. Not now, not then.

  “How long have you known?”

  “A while.”

  “A while as in days? Weeks? Years?” My voice rises an octave with each word.

  “Years,” Finley admits.

  “You’ve known about me for years?” I squeak. “Am I so awful that you didn’t want to meet me—you didn’t care at all?” Another thought occurs to me and I cover my gasp with my palm, speaking through my fingers. “Do I have another sister or brother? Were you an only child?”

  “It’s just us, as far as I know.” She looks almost sheepish. “And we did meet, although I didn’t know about our connection until years afterward.”

  Years. So much time, wasted. And now, so many questions. I tear my eyes away from Finley for a moment—eyes that are identical to mine—needing to gather my thoughts. My mother. Finley’s father … Ace. My father.

  I pause for a moment before asking, “What was he like?”

  “Ace?”

  I jerk my chin in a shallow nod.

  “I was only ten when he went to prison. But he used to walk me to school in the morning. And every Wednesday he would pick me up from school and take me to dance class, and then for ice cream.” Her eyes lift and she gives me a sad smile.

  “Really? My mom did the same with me.” I tilt my head at the odd coincidence. “That’s so strange. Mrs. Br—”

  “—early’s Dance Studio.” There’s no surprise on Finley’ face.

  I’m dumbfounded. “You think—you think they planned it?”

  “I know they did. It was how Ace got to see you.”

  “I—I never noticed.”

  Finley leans back. “I know.”

  For several beats, neither of us say anything. “I hated those damn dance classes,” she says eventually.

  “Really? I loved them.”

  “Of course, you did,” Finley says sarcastically. “You came in with a different tutu every week, and you didn’t trip over your feet every other eight-count.”

  “So,” I clear my throat, “why didn’t you want to get to know me?”

  “When Ace went to jail, I was stuck with my con artist mother. Dragged along from mark to mark. Meanwhile, you lived a life of wealth and privilege. What would you want with me?”

  I gape at her. “I’d have wanted exactly what I want right now. To get to know you. You’re my family.”

  “We share a few strands of DNA. You don’t owe me anything.”

  I lift the bag on my lap. “And this is what you owe me?”

  “The chance to be that brave, strong girl again?” She exhales a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, I do.”

  I open the passport cover to find my face and a stranger’s name. “Amy Reynolds, fleeing the country like a refugee, is that girl?”

  “There’s a plane waiting for you at Teterboro. You can go wherever you want, start over somewhere else.”

  It’s impossible to ignore the irony of this moment. How many times in the past month have I wished I could leave this city behind and never look back? Forget about Damon, my father, Chad, Sebastián. Remember my mother as she was, and not the shell of a person she is now.

  A fresh start. It’s what I wanted.

  But is it what I want?

  Damon King.

  His name flashes in my mind.

  He is what I want. My devil. My dark knight. My forever.

  Finley reads it in my face and groans. “Seriously, Aislinn. Don’t be the girl who can’t figure her own shit out. There’s more to life than dick. What do you want? Who do you want to be?”

  My mind grinds to a halt in protest, my thoughts becoming sluggish. But Finley doesn’t make any attempt to hurry me. “The Network,” I finally say. “I want to continue my work with The Network.�
�

  “Well, have you reached out to Davina?”

  “No. I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy?”

  “Busy wallowing in self-pity,” I admit.

  “You done now?”

  My head dips forward in a shaky nod. “Yes. I think I am.”

  “Finally.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know which of you is more pathetic. Damon’s a goddamn mess, too.”

  It’s the first time she’s mentioned him since I’ve been staying with her, both of us creeping around his name like it’s a curse.

  She picks up what’s left of my cookie and stands. “Waste of perfectly warm raisins,” she grumbles. “I’m going to head back to work. Should I tell the pilot to get the plane ready?”

  I pick up the bag from my lap and return it to Finley. “No. I won’t be needing it.”

  44

  AISLINN

  Half an hour after Finley leaves, I am out the door myself.

  I needed a kick in the ass and she gave me one.

  Along with a dose of reality.

  I have reasons to stay in New York.

  A sister.

  The Network.

  And the man I love.

  I don’t want to talk about myself in the third person. I don’t want to feel disconnected and ashamed of who I’ve become.

  It’s time for me to put on my big girl panties and woman-up. The spitfire is back.

  First, I buy myself my own phone and laptop to replace the ones I left behind. Next, I call Davina.

  “Aislinn, is that you?”

  “Yes. Sorry, it’s been so long.” And I am sorry. I forgot how important The Network is to me. How important our work is to those who need it.

  “We all need a break sometimes. How are you doing?”

  “I’m good.” I pause. “Well, I’m getting there. Which is actually why I’m calling—”

  “You know what?” Davina interrupts. “Let’s have this conversation in person. Are you free for dinner?”

  “Yes,” I answer quickly, my appetite suddenly reappearing after a week-long hiatus. “Where should I meet you?”

  She names a restaurant I’m familiar with and we agree to meet in an hour. I hurry back to Finley’s apartment, drop off my heavy shopping bag, and start walking uptown. I could take a cab, but the fresh air feels good. Well, as fresh as Manhattan air can get. I’ve been cooped up for so long, physically and mentally.