Why am I so fucking tired?
He shakes his head. “You don’t have a choice in this matter anymore.” My eyelids droop as he stands, jostling the cushions. I can’t even lift my head as he bends over me, lips brushing a kiss across my temple. “I’m sorry, Cass,” he whispers.
Sorry? What’s he sorry for? I try to ask him, but all I manage is an unintelligible mumble. Every part of me feels like it’s encased in cement, the battle to stay awake a losing one.
Sorry.
The coffee.
He slides one arm under my knees, the other behind my back, and I want to hit him.
The bastard drugged my coffee.
* * * *
This bed is not mine. It’s not one of Nick’s, and it’s not the bed in Constantine’s guest room. I push my nose into the pillow.
It’s too clean.
I slit open an eye. There’s a table beside the bed with a small lamp and a bottle of water. I reach out to grab the water and stop.
Coffee.
Drugs.
My boyfriend drugged me.
I shoot up in bed fast enough to trigger a dull, aching throb behind my eyes, and I squeeze them shut. Whatever Nick doped me with has given me a headache and a mouth desperately in need of water. After several deep breaths, the throbbing fades to a manageable level, and I open my eyes again.
The room is dim. Light’s coming in from somewhere, and I twist around to find the source. High windows line the wall behind the bed. The room itself is long and kind of narrow, the walls white. Other than the bed and the table, the only other furniture is a tall cabinet in the corner.
I push aside the blankets—how considerate of Nick to make sure I was comfortable while I was unconscious—and plant my feet on the floor. At some point, he took off my pants, and the air in the room is cool enough to make me shiver. My legs hold me up, so I walk to the cabinet and pull open the doors.
Why are my clothes hanging in here? I tug on a sleeve and frown. I left most of my clothing at Constantine’s. Flipping through the hangers, it looks like all my clothes have been moved here. What’s not hanging up is in the shallow drawers below. I snag a pair of fleece pants I haven’t seen before and pull them on, then head for the door.
Nick earns back a point when the knob turns easily in my hand. I half expected him to have me locked in the room. I step onto what appears to be a catwalk and peer over the railing to the floor below.
It’s a warehouse.
Nick’s got me in a warehouse.
Granted, it’s a small-ish warehouse. The floor below is mostly covered in mats, though one quarter of the space holds free weights, a couple of cardio machines, and other random exercise equipment.
I study the length of the catwalk. The room I’m in is on one end. I open the door next to my room, a groan of relief escaping when I see it’s a bathroom. Even if the bottle on the nightstand is sealed, I don’t trust it. I wash my hands, turn the hot water to cold, and cup them under the stream.
I drink.
And drink.
And drink.
Water dribbles down my chin, trailing along my neck, but I don’t care. Whatever the hell Nick put in my coffee dried my mouth out worse than the Mojave.
When I’ve finally drunk my fill, I fumble a towel free of the rack and wipe the water from my face. Then I go back to the room, find a pair of shoes, and head for the stairs at the other end of the catwalk.
If he’s around, he must be in one of the other two rooms because the main level is empty. There’s a wide set of double sliding doors on the far side of the warehouse and a sturdy-looking metal bar secured with a heavy lock across them.
Beside me is a single door with a bright green sign overhead that reads EXIT. I glance up at the catwalk and step toward the door.
This one is locked. I study the deadbolt for a moment. It must lock from the outside. Which means either anyone outside can unlock it or Nick had a double-sided deadbolt put in. Dangerous in the event of an emergency. Perfect if you want to keep someone prisoner.
“You can have your own key when I’m confident you won’t try to escape.”
“Your trust in me is overwhelming,” I say flatly, glaring at the door. I turn around and scan the lower level. I missed the kitchen area spread out under the catwalk. He’s lounging against a counter, bottle of water next to his elbow.
“Preemptive strike.” His voice is just as flat. “You and I both know you wouldn’t have come willingly. It was either drug you or wrestle you to the ground and handcuff you, and there was still a risk you’d get away.” He flashes a sharp smile. “You’re wily like that.”
I give the door a hard thump with the side of my fist and stalk to the middle of the mats. I kick off my shoes and drop to the floor. “Your diplomatic skills need work. You have no way of knowing I wouldn’t have agreed with you.”
He pushes off the counter and strides across the room. My breath hitches as he drops to his knees in front of me. “If you expect me to apologize for what I’ve done, you’ll be waiting a fucking long time.” Lightning fast, his mouth is on mine, hot and firm and gone in the next blink. “You’re not doing this alone,” he says softly. “You were never supposed to.”
I will not scoot back. I will not be the first to retreat. I absolutely will not hit him, no matter how much he deserves it. “I was always supposed to do this alone. I just never told you.”
Nick settles on the mat. “Isaiah’s done more than murder your father, Cass. His actions have split the organization. He has to answer for that. That’s the reason why my father and my uncle agreed to this plan.”
I arch a brow. “You failed to mention the part where we were supposed to report to them what was happening.”
“Had you stuck with the original plan, there would have been no need. One day, hit ’em all, and it’d be over. Not easy to cover up, but doable with advance notice. We’ll come up with a new plan, and I highly recommend you cooperate.” He points behind me to the exercise area. “In the meantime, feel free to use whatever you want. If you want to go to the shooting range, let me know, and I’ll arrange it.”
Arrange it. I feel like I’m trapped in that old song—I can check out any time I like, but I can’t leave. “Why are you doing this?”
He gets to his feet, and for the first time, I see the anger behind his bland expression. “You abused my trust. You pushed too far, too hard, too fast. Right now, I’m the only one standing between you and the rest of the family. I’ll help you, but it will be done my way.”
I’d do it again, too, and that brings on a wave of guilt. Not that I’ve used him, but that I’d do it again. “How long are we staying here? Where is here?”
“When you stop acting like a selfish, immature girl, I’ll tell you.” He stands and heads for the door.
Shame burns through my veins long after he’s gone. Nick’s right. I’ve been selfish and immature, too focused on that hideous beast called revenge to care what my choices did to others.
The burn flares hotter as I realize I don’t care, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Flopping over onto my back, I stare at the ceiling high above. Does it make it better, knowing I’m ashamed of my actions, even though I wouldn’t change them?
No. Because the fact remains I wouldn’t do anything differently. Each kill has been a brick in a wall, separating the old Cass from the new. What Nick wants will tear that wall down, and if he succeeds, I will become a babbling, incoherent mass of grief and pain.
I roll onto my side and prop myself up on an elbow. Somehow, I’ll have to get out of here. The easy way is to allow Nick to help me take out Isaiah. The idea has its appeal. The only thing holding back the aching loneliness is that half-built wall, and if we do this together, I won’t be alone.
Physically, anyway.
The hard way involves finding the damn key he’s promised me, not getting caught, and most likely destroying whatever’s left of my relationship with
Nick.
I wish revenge wasn’t such a greedy fucker.
Chapter 3
Most of my life with Nick is crammed into this cabinet. When I left Constantine’s for my old apartment, all I took with me were some clothes, my phone, and the weapons Nick bought me. The gun’s locked in a box on the top shelf, next to the one holding the whetstone and oil I use to clean the knives. The knives themselves are stored in their original box, next to the supplies.
Three little boxes and a bunch of nearly new jeans and shirts. It’s so far from a complete picture it’s laughable. It doesn’t show the quiet evenings full of getting-to-know-you conversations, or his casual acceptance of my ability to take care of myself. There’s nothing of the meals I’ve made for us or the hells we’ve gone through.
Then with one move, one choice, he screwed it up.
I grab a sweatshirt and shut the cabinet doors. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe Nick did when he doped my coffee. Whatever the answer is, it’s not one I have time to search for. Isaiah’s still alive. I pull the sweatshirt over my head and go back downstairs.
The refrigerator is full, as are the cupboards. Everything I could possibly need to feed myself a healthy, nutritious meal is in this kitchen. I take out a glass and fill it with water from the tap while I debate my dinner choices. Part of me wants to be annoying and contrary and make Nick pick up take-out. He deserves it for locking me inside.
“Dammit!” Water slops over the sides of the glass as I slam it onto the counter. I promised Mom I’d stop by to see her today. She might be a member of the walking dead, but I promised. On the off chance she notices I haven’t been around, I don’t want to cause her any more worry.
Any other time, I might have waited until Nick gave me my key, shown him I’m not the selfish, immature girl he says I am, but this is my mother. The only family I have left. She trumps proving anything to my boyfriend. He’s got to have it squirreled away in one of the rooms upstairs.
The door swings open with a loud squeak as I’m hurrying toward the stairs. Nick shuts it behind him and twists the key in the lock.
“I told my mother I’d stop by and see her today. You said there was a key I could have?” I ask.
“I dropped by your parents’ house and told her you would be out of touch for a few days,” he responds. “She said she was going to visit your aunt for a while and would call you when she got there.” He starts up the stairs. “Come on.”
So Mom will talk to Nick, but not to me? The hits won’t stop coming. I follow him to the second level while trying to wrestle the hurt into place.
He opens one of the two closed doors and waves me inside. The long, narrow room reminds me of his study and the second bedroom at the condo. A U-shaped desk sits in the near corner, three monitors cluttering its surface. When he reaches under the desk and boots up the computer, the monitors flare to life.
I wander farther into the room. There’s not much else. A couch is pushed against the far wall, a neatly folded blanket topped with a pillow on one end. A duffle bag is tossed in the corner, the top of it zipped tight.
Something about the blanket and the pillow throws me. I stare at them, trying to understand what they mean. He fucked up, yes, and he hurt me, but I assumed we’d still be sharing a bed, like we have all the other nights.
I don’t want him in here. I want him next to me. I want everything to go back to the way it was. Before Turner was killed.
The only way I’ll get that is to kill Isaiah.
I relax my shoulders and turn around. “You’re still willing to work with me?”
He regards me steadily, his face giving nothing away. “Have a seat.” He points to a chair beside the desk. “Yes, I’m still willing to work with you. That was what should have happened in the first place.”
I pick up the stack of papers on the chair and sit, searching for the words to tell him why I’d done what I had. “Before,” I say quietly, slowly, “it was personal, but not…overly so, I guess. Like there was still some distance. Isaiah already admitted he underestimated me, and up until he shot Turner, I thought he’d keep doing that. After? It wasn’t enough for his men to die. I needed him to be afraid. I need him to fear me. I want him to realize that I don’t play by his rules and he made a huge mistake thinking he could get me to do things his way. If you and Constantine helped, it became too much like a business transaction.”
I look down at the papers in my hands. “You didn’t even try, Nick. You said there was an easy way and a hard way, and the hard way was talking me out of it. If you really meant to try, you wouldn’t have gone straight for the drugs. How do you know I wouldn’t have listened?”
He sighs. “Because you wouldn’t have, Cass. You plowed through those nine men with a singular focus. The Cass I know, the Cass I love, would have hesitated. That lack of hesitation proved I wasn’t dealing with her anymore.”
He’s right. There was no hesitation. My timid, remorseful self is there, though, and she likes to poke her head up at the most inopportune times. “How do I know you’re not offering to help me now so you can kill Isaiah yourself?”
“You don’t,” he says bluntly. “And I’m not going to tell you I won’t. Because if getting to Isaiah means putting yourself in danger, you won’t get anywhere near him. I’d rather have you alive and hating me than both of you in the ground. His life is not worth yours.”
He takes the stack of papers from me and shuffles through them. He finds the one he’s looking for about halfway through the bunch. “Map of the surrounding houses.” He passes the paper to me. “Haven’t had a lot of time to run surveillance on the street, so we’ll need to do that for a few days.”
I put my anger and hurt on ice and study the paper. A few days of inactivity could have the benefit of keeping Isaiah on edge. Given how quickly I eliminated the other men, he might be expecting me to rush at him. Sneaking up from the side has some benefits.
The downside is this won’t be over quickly.
“You said my mom’s leaving town?” Aunt Carol lives in Montana. Her house is near Flathead Lake, surrounded by trees. It’s quiet, peaceful, and this time of year, covered in snow. It’s also in the middle of nowhere. They could be in danger, and there’d be no one around to hear them scream.
“Isaiah’s stretched too thin, thanks to you. Going after your mother wouldn’t be a smart move on his part. I can bring her here if you’d rather.” He slides the keyboard toward him and types in a command. I scoot the chair around and lean in.
It’s a schedule, complete with approximate times and destinations. I reach for the mouse, brushing Nick’s hand in the process. The brief touch sparks a wave of longing, and I hold my breath, willing it to pass.
I could touch him. Kiss him. Let him break me down and put me back together. And if I did, I’d spend more time wondering about his motives than accepting his gestures at face value, and it would destroy whatever we have left.
It was easy to ignore his concern and affection in the first few days after Turner’s death. When I left Constantine’s for my apartment, when he started coming to me at night, little chinks began appearing in my armor. Never large enough to cause much damage, but I felt him. It didn’t take long for my brain to re-wire and accept that with Nick there I could relax, snatch those precious hours of sleep.
“I don’t get it.” I tuck my hands in my lap. “If what I’ve done isn’t sanctioned by the organization, why didn’t you stop me sooner?”
Nick’s gaze remains on the monitors, two new programs springing up on the remaining screens. “Partly because my father and Uncle Anton agreed something should be done about Isaiah’s men. And because if it had been one of my sisters, my mother, or you, I would have done the same thing.”
The muscles of his jaw twitch and relax as I wait for him to continue. “There’s this rage,” he says quietly. “It’ll burn you from the inside out if you let it fester. You should have come to me first with your new plan, Cass
. Not gone ahead without me and assume I’d be there to clean up your mess.”
It doesn’t burn. It freezes. It’s this thick, heavy layer of ice that threatens to kill all the good, leaving only the bad. How does Nick know about the rage? From everything he’s told me, he’s never been in the situation I’m in. “You talk like you’ve experienced it.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got an imagination. And I’ve seen this before. It happens every once in a while in the family.” The look he sends me is one of quiet resignation. “Everyone has the capacity to kill. Some will never need to use it. Others will channel it in different ways, becoming soldiers, terrorists, hunters. Still more will access it in a moment of fear or anger.”
A capacity to kill. We’ve exercised ours more than most. “There’s another category,” I say. “The hardened. The ones who kill without compunction.”
His eyes turn to stone, and his mouth firms into a thin line. “I’m not going to let you become one of them. I’m not letting you walk away, either. We finish this together.” His gaze flits over my face, and then his eyes meet mine. He taps the monitor with the schedule like the interlude never happened. “Isaiah’s schedule, such as it is. It’s more a schedule for the house than for him personally.”
The switch in topic almost gives me whiplash. All right. We’re done with the soft, tender portion of our talk for now. I turn my attention to the monitor. “Do we know when the LAPD schedules will change? Will Tris be on this shift for a while?”
“We don’t know, which is why we’ll be doing surveillance for a couple of days to confirm this schedule.”
I reach for the mouse again and scroll through the schedule. “I’ve seen the house wake earlier than seven. Don’t know how often it happens, but there were at least two instances where someone left before six.”
“Do you remember what days?” Nick rummages through the drawers and comes up with a pad of paper and a pen.
Game of Lies Page 2