by Meg Ripley
“The scumbag you work for, that’s much more accurate. I’m sure you’re aware he’s engaged in some…less than savory practices.” Johan made the statement an almost-question and Chelsea shrugged.
“Everyone in the office knows that,” she pointed out. “If he didn’t want that getting out he’d have to kill us all, not just me.” Johan’s lips twisted into a wry expression.
“Drug running, profiteering…those are the common-knowledge things,” he said slowly. “But you know what happens to people who think they’re untouchable. They start taking bigger and bigger risks.” Johan shrugged. “The CEO of your company has had—dealings—with someone who’s now decided that it suits him better to roll over, give himself up—basically, to out Aaron Rosen for some very dire crimes indeed.” Chelsea swallowed at the tightness she felt in her throat. “And that man is one of the clients you’re working with right now.”
“Why would he give that information to me?” Chelsea shook her head in disbelief. “It’s not like…I’m not anyone with any authority. I’m not even a project manager.” Johan watched her intently for a moment.
“Have you noticed a few people going missing at the office?” he asked her. “Just…dropping off the radar? No explanation, they just aren’t there anymore?” Chelsea felt her mouth go dry as she tried to rack her tired brain for the answer to that question. Johan held his silence for a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps Sarah Johns, Micah Paxton…Cary Knowles?” Chelsea felt as if her stomach had fallen to her knees. Sarah Johns was the project manager for one of the clients that Chelsea was assigned; Micah Paxton was the account manager. Cary Knowles was one of the salesmen. “They were all involved in this particular client’s business dealings with your company, and they’re all deceased.”
“No,” Chelsea said, shaking her head in denial. “You’re lying to me. Whatever kind of sick prank this is, it isn’t funny.” Johan exhaled, reaching into one of the many pockets on his jacket. He withdrew a folded-up bundle of papers.
“I have proof,” he told her, almost sympathetically. Reluctantly, Chelsea took the papers from him and unfolded them, staring down at the pages. The first several she flipped through were obituaries—featuring each of the names he had mentioned, listing unknown causes of death, presumed accidents. As she continued through the stack, Chelsea’s blood began to run cooler and cooler as she saw emails, text messages. Target has been handled, one read. No information found. Confiscate their work computer.
At the bottom of the pile, there was a picture of her—the one she had taken in the office, that was used for her email signature; it was attached to an email that read like a macabre dating profile, listing her address and phone number, the hours she worked, the fact that she typically went out to happy hour with her department on Fridays. “No,” Chelsea said, her voice little more than a breath. “This…I don’t even know anything!” She looked at Johan as her heart began beating faster in her chest, her eyes stinging.
“We need to do a few things, and we need to do them quickly,” Johan told her, his tone level. “Can you access your work computer from home?” Chelsea nodded absently, glancing down at the papers in her hands. She felt her fingers trembling, almost unable to hold the surprisingly slippery sheets of paper. “You need to download the information the client sent to you, and we need to get the hell out of here.”
“Where are we going?” She looked up again, meeting Johan’s level gaze.
“Away. That’s all you need to know for right now.” He paused. “Away for several days.”
“Do I have time to pack? Change clothes?” Johan shrugged.
“We should be out of here in an hour; by then your boss will have probably reported you phoning in sick.” His gaze trailed over her slowly. “Pack whatever you feel you can’t live without.” There was something so final in the statement; as if to underscore the point, Johan added, “I can’t guarantee anything you leave behind will still be here at the end of the day.” Chelsea stood unsteadily, letting the papers fall from her hands and onto the coffee table. She wished—fleetingly—that she had made coffee, instead of using the time she spent waiting for Johan’s arrival to get sleep; she had the feeling that it was going to be a very, very long day.
****
Chelsea paced back and forth along the length of the living room area of the suite she had checked into with Johan only a few minutes before, her arms crossed over her chest, looking at the floor beneath her feet. She knew, in the back of her mind, that she was not doing any favors to herself; but as she turned sharply and counted the steps to the other end of the room, she couldn’t help herself.
They had driven for three hours; that was the most that Chelsea knew. She was not even certain that they were three hours away from the city she lived in. It seemed somehow as if Johan had doubled back at some point, as if she had seen the same vague landmarks—a stand of trees, or a particular unfamiliar sign—more than once, though she couldn’t be sure. Fatigue throbbed in her bones, waging war with the adrenaline surging through her veins. Chelsea felt as if there were tiny bugs underneath her skin, making her tingle, making her nerves twitch inside of her.
Johan had given her exactly an hour and a half before they left; he had told her to bring her laptop out, log into her work station, and then dismissed her to pack her things while he went in and downloaded whatever files she was supposed to have been given, the information that had led to the CEO of her company deciding that she needed to be eliminated. “Why didn’t he just fire me?” she asked out loud, glancing at Johan. He was seated on the other end of the room, reading a book; a perfect picture of tranquility. Who the hell is he, anyway? Chelsea wondered, frowning at the sight of the man reading. The front cover of the book gave her no clues as to what its contents might be; Chelsea couldn’t make heads or tails of the foreign words, and there was no picture to provide any context. What the hell kind of guy carries two guns, three knives, drives a sports car, and reads in his downtime? Johan glanced up from his book, his expression almost bored.
“Because, he can’t be certain that you don’t already have the information—or didn’t already have the information. If he fired you, that wouldn’t do him any good.” Johan licked his lips, smiling slightly. “If it gives you any consolation, he’s after the criminal mastermind who decided to roll on him, too.” Chelsea felt a shiver work down her spine.
“That doesn’t exactly make me feel great about my chances. He’s killed three people already.” Chelsea remembered—bleakly—a fortune she had gotten once at a Chinese restaurant: “Three can keep a secret, if you get rid of two.” She wondered if Rosen had received that same advice, or if as a lowlife, the epiphany came naturally to him. She started walking more quickly, feeling like a lion trapped in a cage.
The hotel they had come to was much nicer than Chelsea would have expected; the suite was as big as her apartment, with two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchenette. It was obvious to her that Johan had had much more lead-time than she originally thought; the room they were in was already booked when they arrived. “Who do you work for?” Chelsea asked him suddenly, stopping in mid-step.
“That really isn’t your concern,” Johan pointed out, glancing up from his book once more.
“I would think it is,” Chelsea countered. “I mean—as far as I know, you’re just…you might even be working for Rosen. Holding me here until someone can come and get me.” Her feet started moving again as the adrenaline flowed through Chelsea’s veins, making her heart beat faster.
“Because Rosen would want you to be comfortable while you waited?”
“Why not? Lull me into a false sense of security.” Johan laughed.
“His goons could have snatched you out of your apartment at any time. They didn’t. I could have grabbed you on your way to your car this morning and drugged you to bring you here.”
“That is probably the least comforting thing you’ve said to me all day.” Not that he’s been exactly chatty. Chelsea
looked down at the floor, numbering her steps as she made her way from one end of the room to the other.
“You should stop pacing,” Johan said, his voice perfectly level. “It’s making you more anxious.”
“Well excuse me!” Chelsea countered, her feet coming to a stop in spite of her protest. “I just spent three hours on the road with someone I don’t even know, I have no idea where I am, and my morning started out with being told that someone wants me dead, and I have an hour and a half to pack up anything I couldn’t bear to lose, because my house might get wrecked—who knows?” She crossed her arms over her chest, pinning Johan down with a stare as brittle anger built up inside of her. Chelsea fleetingly wished that she hadn’t outgrown the kind of tantrums that had marked her toddler years; it would be so satisfying to throw herself onto the floor kicking and screaming. “Someone could come in at any moment and try to kill me. How the hell are you so calm?” Johan’s lips twitched and Chelsea’s anger deepened at his amusement.
“Because I know that someone could come at any moment and try and kill me, or you—or anyone,” Johan said. “At any time.” He shrugged. “Or you could get hit by a car. You could get struck by lightning. Hell—people have been killed by animals falling out of the sky. The difference is that right now you know someone is out to get you. At least right now there’s someone between you and your death.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a fabulous, detached attitude about my entire life going to pieces around me,” Chelsea said, carefully keeping her voice low. She could feel the anger rising inside of her, the temptation to raise her voice, to scream, to shout, making her throat tighten.
“You should do something to relax,” Johan said matter-of-factly. “Take a bath, or get a massage. I’m fairly certain the mini-bar is well stocked.” Chelsea clenched her teeth, suppressing the shriek of indignation that threatened to rip through her throat at the dry, almost bored tone of Johan’s voice.
“Take a bath?” she asked him finally. “When someone could bust through the door at any minute, you suggest I take a bath.”
“You’d have ten minutes or better to get dressed before they broke in on you,” Johan pointed out. “Or if you don’t mind fighting naked, you could use that time to find a weapon.” Chelsea stared at him in utter disbelief.
“Are you even listening to the words coming out of your mouth right now?” She bit off the rest of the words that threatened to tumble past her lips as she heard the volume of her voice rising. Johan set his book down, regarding her for a long moment. Chelsea felt a thrill of instinctive fear at the sight of him seated a few yards away, absolutely still, completely silent.
“I’m going to need you to calm the fuck down, Chelsea,” Johan said, his voice a low almost-growl. The sound sent a shiver down Chelsea’s spine; somehow his accent was more pronounced, the rasping edge of his tone sharper. “Go take a bath. You look exhausted, and if you’re going to keep moving for the next few days, you’re going to need to sleep at some point.” Chelsea felt her mouth go dry; there was something about Johan’s absolute stillness that reminded her of a predator about to strike. “If you aren’t in the bathroom and running a bath in the next five minutes, I will pick you up and carry you there, and instead of a nice hot bath, you’ll have a cold, fully-clothed shower.”
For just a moment, Chelsea’s brittle rage rose up, and she reveled in the thought of defying him, of telling Johan that she was not about to do what he said, that he wasn’t in charge of her and she would take a bath or not as she damned well pleased. But after the satisfying fantasy played through in her mind, she felt the fatigue of her inadequate sleep, even less adequate caffeine, and the stresses of the day come crashing down around her.
She turned away from Johan, walking quickly in the direction of the master bedroom. “I’m not doing this because you told me to,” she shouted over her shoulder, casting a resentful glance in the direction of the back of his chair. Chelsea knew it was petty; but she couldn’t resist saying it, as she closed the door behind her and began to strip off her clothes. Irritation carried her through as she peeled off her jeans and tee shirt, as her arms tangled somehow in the straps of her bra. Chelsea flung her clothes away from her with bitter disregard for where they ended up, muttering to herself as she twisted the knobs on the taps. “I need to calm down, he says. I look exhausted he says…maybe, Johan, that’s because I am exhausted, because my entire life is falling to pieces around me and I have no idea what the hell is going on.” She plunged one foot into the water and hissed, reaching out blindly and turning the cold water on to lower the temperature.
Chelsea climbed over the high lip of the deep tub, appreciating it almost resentfully. As she sank down into the water, the bitter words crowding their way past her lips began to ebb, and she felt her muscles slowly relaxing as the heat swirled around her. Try as she might to hold onto her resentment, the warmth and support of the water surrounding her began to lull her mind, even as the ache of fatigue flowed out of her body. She found a ridge in the wall of the tub and rested her head on it as drowsiness overcame her.
****
For the fourth time that day, Chelsea fell out of a deep doze, her sleep interrupted by the sound of someone tapping at the bathroom door. “Are you alive in there, Chelsea?” Chelsea glanced in the direction of the door, scowling even though the person on the other side of it obviously couldn’t see her face.
“Yes,” she said, sitting up slightly in the still-warm water.
“I have something for you,” Johan said. “Consider it a peace offering.” Chelsea raised an eyebrow, her lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. She glanced around the room.
“I’m naked,” she pointed out, raising her voice just enough to be heard through the door.
“I don’t mind if you don’t,” Johan replied. Chelsea rolled her eyes, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and worrying it for a moment in thought. Curiosity won out over both spite and modesty. She reached out and pulled the shower curtain along the length of the tub, providing what little cover she could for herself.
“Fine. The door’s unlocked.” She realized that Johan could have easily just walked in; she had been so angry and so tired when she acceded to his demand that she take a bath that she hadn’t even given thought to locking it. Chelsea’s cheeks heated up from more than the humid temperature of the room.
A moment later, Johan came through the door, bearing a large basket full of items that Chelsea didn’t have the energy to examine in more detail. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of the shower curtain and shrugged, shifting down into a crouch only a few feet away from her. “It occurred to me that if I expect you to relax, it would make more sense to help you relax.” His tone was not quite apologetic; Johan gestured to the basket. “I ordered this from the spa downstairs off the room service menu—it has toiletries, massage oils, candles, I think a bathrobe…” Johan shrugged again.
“Are you suggesting that I massage myself?” Chelsea asked him, glancing from the basket to Johan’s face doubtfully. Johan smiled slightly.
“I am suggesting that I could give you a massage,” Johan said. “I studied it a few years ago.” Chelsea opened her mouth, found that she wasn’t entirely sure what to say, and closed it again, staring at Johan in silence as the explanation filtered through her brain.
“You—how, exactly did you study it?” she sat up slightly in the tub, heedless of the fact that more of her body showed. “I mean you’re—what, some kind of bodyguard-assassin-commando kind of guy?” Johan smiled, his bright eyes glinting with amusement.
“Sometimes cover means working as a massage therapist, and that cover works better if you know what you’re doing.” Chelsea bit her bottom lip, trying to absorb that information.
“So, you’re suggesting I let you rub me down with oil to relax me,” Chelsea said slowly, the heat intensifying in her cheeks as she spoke, spreading down over her chest. She finally realized that her breasts were in Johan’s v
iew and shifted slightly behind the shower curtain.
“You’re blushing,” Johan said, his faint smile deepening. “Why’d you move? I was enjoying the view.” Chelsea grabbed at the shower curtain, her heart beating faster.
“I’m not getting a massage from someone who’s already leering at me,” Chelsea told him tartly.
“I’m not leering,” Johan said matter-of-factly. “I forget sometimes how Americans feel about nudity.” He licked his lips, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “Of course, we could have sex. That’s another way to relieve stress—and it kills time.” Chelsea’s mouth opened in surprise. “You’re a beautiful woman; I’ve been told that I’m very good in bed. There’s nothing worth watching on TV, and it would serve the purpose of giving you some appetite.”
“That has got to be the least romantic come-on I have ever heard,” Chelsea said, staring at him in a mixture of confusion and amusement.
“I started with you being beautiful,” Johan pointed out, amusement flickering in his blue-green eyes. “You are. As soon as you came in here, I thought about that solution to the problem of you being so tightly wound.” Johan leaned in slightly closer, his gaze never leaving her face. “When was the last time someone got you off, Chelsea?” Chelsea bit her bottom lip, uncomfortably aware of the fact that she was completely naked, nothing more than some fabric and plastic separating her from Johan. “See, I think it’s been entirely too long—or you’d have an answer for me.”
“It’s none of your business,” Chelsea said, crossing her arms instinctively over her chest.
“Oh-ho,” Johan said, grinning broadly. “It’s been a while then.” The smile disappeared in a flash, and Chelsea felt her body heating up in a way that had nothing to do with the water swirling around her as Johan gazed at her intently. “You can’t sleep in the tub; you’d drown or dissolve.” Johan rose to his feet in a lithe, almost feline movement, reaching out and nimbly snatching one of the towels off the rack without even looking. “You’ve gotten as much relaxation out of this as you possibly can, and I can see it all over your face that you’re still on the edge of another panic attack. Let me help you, Chelsea.”