Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel)

by Leighton, M.

  Her smile is reluctant, but it comes. And I feel better for having helped put it there. It feels good to be this person, this pleasant, thoughtful person rather than the scathing bitch I was before. The girl no one really wanted to be around unless they had something to gain from it.

  “Yeah, we have basking to do,” Cash reiterates huskily as he pulls Olivia to her feet and into his arms. He nuzzles her throat and she giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Good. It’s all worked out then. Let’s go,” Cash says, taking Olivia by the hand and towing her toward the door. As she passes me, she impulsively bends down and winds one arm around my shoulders, hugging me to her.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she whispers in my ear, giving me a light squeeze. I reach up to return her hug, feeling the warmth of her personality more than ever.

  And to think, if it weren’t for a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I could’ve gone the rest of my life missing out on someone as wonderful as Liv. That would’ve been the biggest tragedy of all.

  “I am, too,” I whisper back. From the couch, I watch the trio leave. The last thing I see is the black pools of Nash’s eyes when they meet mine as he’s shutting the door.

  I feel the complex heat of them long after he’s gone.

  ELEVEN

  Nash

  I thought when I finally got to come out of hiding, when I finally got to live, I’d never have a reason to go back. Ever. To any part of the life I’ve had for these last seven years.

  But I was wrong.

  Of course, I never imagined that Dad would want us to give up the fight, that he’d be content to rot in prison and let Mom’s killer go free. But then again, he’s known who killed her all along.

  My stomach clenches at the thought of Duffy. My fingers ache with the remembered desire to wrap my hands around his throat and look him in the eye as I squeeze the life out of him.

  But Duffy’s just one man. Even though he’s technically the one who killed my mother with that bomb, whether he intended to or not, he’s just one of several who were ultimately behind Mom’s death and all the hell that followed. My thirst for revenge won’t be satisfied until they’re all dead or in prison. Maybe Dad knows that. Maybe that’s why he wants us to give it up. Maybe it’s a lifelong pursuit, trying to get to the bottom. Or the top, rather.

  Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m not giving it up. Not ever. I can’t. It would kill too much of me, of who I was and who I am, to let it go. So I’ll see it through. No matter what it takes or how long I have to fight, I’ll see it through.

  After dropping Cash and Olivia back at Dual, I drive the quick trip across town to the train station. I stopped there on my way into town and got myself a locker. Having no roots to speak of makes it a little more difficult to keep important things safe. Even some people with roots choose locations such as these to keep valuable things out of harm’s way. Like Dad, for instance. It was at this very train station that he’d stashed his bag of goodies.

  My smile is wry and a little hostile when I think to myself that it’s probably a good thing only one of us boys followed so closely in Dad’s footsteps. I just always assumed if either of us turned out to be a criminal or turned out to possess criminal tendencies, it would be Cash. I think everyone assumed that. In a way, I guess Nash really did die the day of the explosion. The guy he was and the guy he would’ve grown to be are dead. Both of them. Gone forever. The question is: Who am I? Who rose to take their place?

  Pushing those troubling thoughts aside, I find a place to park in the lot outside the station. Glancing casually over my shoulder, a habit I doubt I’ll ever break, I make my way into the building and over to the small stand of lockers to the left. I’d picked a locker number I’d remember easily. Number four thirteen. Mom’s birthday. April thirteenth.

  As always, when I think of her birthday, I think of the day she died. As if that’s ever far from my mind. But sometimes it’s more . . . poignant. The guilt of surviving when I should’ve died, of being the douche on the dock filming a topless girl rather than on the boat where he should’ve been, eats at me. She shouldn’t have been alone. She shouldn’t have died alone. I should’ve been with her. But I wasn’t. I was spared. And look what’s become of me. The world would be a much better place if she’d lived and I’d been the one blown to bits that day.

  But that’s not the way it worked out. So the least I can do is bring the culprits to justice. One way or the other.

  I pull a small key with an orange top out of my boot. It’s nondescript. If someone were to ever find it, they’d never know where it came from or, if they happened to figure it out somehow, what locker it fits.

  It slides easily into the lock and I turn it until the door pops open. Inside is a black bag with a few emergency supplies and a couple of phones. One of them is very important. Like the one Dad had left us, it has all sorts of numbers that I might need at some point. I had hoped I’d never have to use any of them, but I kept them for a reason. Because things rarely go as planned. Dammit.

  It also contains another copy of the footage from the dock. There are a few other odds and ends stored on it. Things that could easily get me killed. Things about weapons and smugglers and routes I should know nothing about. But I do. There’s enough insurance here to save my life a dozen times over. Or cost it. Depends on who has the phone. And who knows what’s on it. Right now, it’s only me. And that’s how I plan to keep it. Trust no one. I’ve survived a long time on that motto. It’s kept me safe. Alive.

  I power the phone up and scroll through the list of contacts until I find Dmitry’s number. I text it to a second phone, that of a burner that also resides in the locker. One of several burner phones, actually. Someone in my line of work and with my family history can never have too many. I get them with no GPS and very limited . . . everything. I can use them, then trash them, leaving no trace that could ever lead back to me.

  After another casual assessment of my surroundings, I secure the locker and drop the key back in my boot. I take the burner phone to an empty bench and hit the send button.

  It rings several times before a familiar gruff voice says three short, heavily accented words.

  “Leave me message.” A beep follows.

  “It’s Nikolai,” I begin. It’s the name Dmitry gave me from the moment we met. I had to be someone other than Greg Davenport’s son, Nash. I had to be someone else entirely. “I, uh, I need to talk to you. It’s really something I’d rather discuss in person, though. If you can make it to the place I first met you, about the same time, in two days, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks, Dmitry.”

  I hang up, knowing he’ll understand my message perfectly. And I know in two days, he’ll be there if at all possible. The boat shouldn’t be pulling out for another week or so, so it should be no problem for him to get there.

  Punching a few keys to erase all traces of the text and the call, I get up and walk toward the exit, nonchalantly dropping the phone in a trash can as I pass.

  As I make my way back to Cash’s car, my mind flickers back over the past seven years’ worth of conversations with Dmitry. He told me dozens of stories involving him and Dad. Nothing too scandalous; just mischief they got into in the early years. Evidently they both got into the business about the same time.

  They made their way through the ranks, my father eventually going into the money-laundering side, Dmitry into the smuggling side. They remained friends and confidants, which is why Dad had Dmitry as an emergency exit strategy. It’s not that he would’ve risked our safety with a smuggler; it’s just that he trusted Dmitry above all others.

  And now I’m about to trust Dmitry. And I’m about to ask for his help. It’s a big favor, one that he might not be willing to grant, but it’s worth asking. Things might’ve degraded to where he’s one of three or four linchpins on whi
ch our only shot of making this right depends. Only time will tell, but I have to start somewhere. I have to do something. I need a plan A and a plan B. I can’t let this go. And even though Cash said he has no intention of letting it go, I don’t trust that it’s as important to him to see this through. At least not as important as it is to me. I just don’t trust anyone that much. Not even family. I’ve been on my own too long for that to change. Maybe one day. But I doubt it.

  My conscience prickles. Here I am, hesitating to fully trust anyone when I myself would be considered by most to be untrustworthy. I’ve become so driven, I let very little get in my way, especially if it’s a matter of something like “right” standing in the path of what I want or need. The life that I was forced into is one of survival of the fittest with a take-no-prisoners kind of attitude. It’s hard to shake those habits and make a smooth return to the civilized world.

  A pair of bright blue eyes watches me from the back of my mind. My conscience stabs me again. I wonder what she’d think if she knew everything. Everything I’ve done.

  Especially the things that involve her.

  Unlocking the car, I slide behind the wheel and put all such deep, bothersome thoughts out of my head. Some things aren’t good to dwell on. This is one of them.

  Pushing the start button on Cash’s BMW, I pull out of the parking lot and turn back toward his condo. I need to work out two plans, down to the last detail. I can’t afford surprises. One of them has to succeed.

  * * *

  After a few hours spent researching on the computer, I’m very ready for a break, even if that break involves a tuxedo and a bunch of rich assholes. I don’t give a shit about them; it’s Marissa I’m looking forward to spending time with. And I’m not even going to pretend my motives aren’t one hundred percent selfish.

  I need a delicious, feminine body to lose myself in, to bury my troubles in. Even if it’s just for a little while. And although I could probably find any number of willing partners, she’s the one I want. For many reasons, one of which, I’m sure, is the fact that she’s a spoiled little rich girl.

  I know I could probably go there right now and have sex with her, but I’m enjoying this little game we’ve got going on that’s leading up to it. It’s another form of distraction, and I welcome it. I don’t mind getting all dressed up to continue playing just as long as she doesn’t start expecting more. I’ve already warned her about me. I hope she’s not fool enough to ignore that warning.

  I tug at the snug collar of my crisp, white shirt. I’ve worn a tuxedo exactly one time in my life. My junior prom. I don’t remember it feeling nearly so constrictive. As I shrug my shoulders inside the perfectly cut material, I realize it’s not the suit that’s suffocating me; it’s life.

  I’m not adjusting nearly as well as I’d imagined I would. I had this vision of landing back in real life as if no time had passed, as if nothing had happened and I was the same guy I was when I left. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  That, ladies and gentlemen, is called denial. Ain’t she a bitch?

  I’m a few minutes early when I reach Marissa’s door. I try the knob, but it’s locked.

  At least she’s got some kind of brain!

  I could use the key on Cash’s set, but I don’t. I ring the bell instead.

  It takes her a couple of minutes to answer. I guess beauty like hers takes time. And when she flips the lock and appears in the open doorway, I realize it’s worth every second.

  Damn, she’s gorgeous.

  Marissa’s tall, lean body is wrapped in a black dress that was made to hug her. From where the strap sits on only one shoulder to where the material loosens just past her knees and falls to the floor, it fits her like a second skin. Every sleek curve is perfectly delineated, and the strappy heels she’s wearing make her legs look that much longer.

  Her blond hair looks like a platinum wave gushing over her one bare shoulder, and her skin glows like liquid gold. But it’s those damn eyes that get me. Vivid blue orbs that look both innocent and seductive all at the same time. And she’s always watching me with them. Curiously. Intently. I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s imagining. If she’s remembering . . .

  I know it’s probably just my conscience playing tricks again. After what I’ve done. Surely she can’t know. But still, I wonder.

  “You look stunning,” I say in a moment of honesty.

  Her lips part in an even more stunning smile. “Thank you. And you look very handsome. As always.”

  I’ll admit I cleaned up a little. But not much. I could’ve gone all out and cut my hair and shaved my face. But I didn’t. And I won’t. I’m still too much of a bastard to do anything drastic like that just to pretend to be Cash (when he’s pretending to be me). Nobody’s that important. Including her. But I did comb my hair back neatly and tuck it behind my ears. And I trimmed my goatee and shaved around it. I’m sure I still look like someone who should never be allowed into a high-society function, tuxedo or not. But they can all kiss my ass. I’m going anyway.

  My motives aren’t totally selfish, I guess. By doing this, by going with her, I’ll be proving a point to Marissa about how strong she is. Or isn’t. Taking someone like me to an event like this will push her further one way or the other. Which way is hard to tell.

  I refuse to think about any other reasons, deep-seated ones, that might have played a role in my attendance tonight. I can’t afford to let myself feel anything for a damn woman. And that’s that.

  At least that’s what I tell myself.

  TWELVE

  Marissa

  How twins can look so much alike yet so different is beyond me. Maybe it’s just his personality that makes him seem so different, but to me, Nash is nothing like Cash. Not at all. I always thought Cash (when I thought he was Nash) was good looking, but he doesn’t hold a candle to the real Nash. He’s breathtaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sexier man. And even in his tuxedo you can see that he belongs in a black leather jacket, perched on the back of a motorcycle. It’s who he is, right down to his bones.

  Dangerous.

  “Let me get my things and we can go,” I say quickly, turning to head back to my room. My fingers are shaking anxiously when I throw a lipstick, my keys, a compact, and my debit card into a black sequined clutch and snap it shut.

  I pause in front of the mirror and take a deep breath. Why do I feel like I’m walking into an inferno? A moth drawn inexplicably to the brutal flame?

  I have no illusions about him. I can’t blame it on any lack of understanding. I know Nash is just that—brutal. But I can’t stay away. Despite the danger, I don’t even want to. It doesn’t make any sense, and I’m not going to try to make it. I’m just gonna run with it. For once in my life, I’m jumping.

  Closing my eyes against my troubling thoughts, I make my way back out to Nash. Back out to the flame.

  * * *

  I think the valet is actually afraid to take the tip Nash hands him. His eyes flit nervously to me, to Nash, and then quickly away before he reaches hesitantly for the folded bill. With a shy nod, he stuffs it in his pocket, hops in the car, and drives very slowly to the parking lot. I hide my smile behind my hand. I bet he makes sure the car is in perfect condition when he brings it back.

  Nash joins me at the curb and offers me his arm, a gesture that shows me he knows how to comport himself in company like the people he’s getting ready to meet. And that he’s not going to be totally obtuse.

  “Shall we?”

  His brow is raised in mockery. I smile and tip my head at him, slipping my hand under his elbow.

  My stomach jumps around anxiously. Part of it is the close proximity to Nash. But that’s nothing new. If he’s anywhere around, my focus is almost entirely centered on him. The other part of it is something that has nothing to do with Nash or his effect on me.

  I acknowledge w
ith more than a little disappointment that it’s worry, worry that he will do or say something to make a fool of himself. Or me. Or, worse, Daddy.

  I remind myself that the new me shouldn’t even care about that. Olivia wouldn’t give something so superficial a second thought. And neither should I.

  But old habits die hard. And mine have been in the grave for only a few hours. I don’t want any parts of that woman to be resurrected. I desperately want the old me to stay dead.

  Putting on my most confident smile, I glance at Nash, walking cockily at my side, and we make our way toward the lectern to sign in.

  The first person to spot us when we walk into the main room is Millicent Strobe, quite possibly one of the most vapid “friends” I have. Evidently she was in the process of exiting one conversation and moving to another, one with a couple situated more in my direction. She rudely abandons them, however, and changes course for, you guessed it, me.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she says in her sugary– sweet way. Her smile is too wide and her eyes too curious as she looks at Nash. She leans in for air kisses to both my cheeks. “A kitty and her chew toy.” She laughs her tinkling, fake laugh and lays her red-nailed hand on Nash’s arm. “Kidding.”

  Only she wasn’t. Kidding, that is. The look she gives Nash, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, is full of disdain.

  “Who’s this? Nash’s career-criminal brother?” She laughs her fake laugh again, and I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. I shouldn’t have worried about Nash embarrassing anybody; I should’ve worried about the people I already knew embarrassing us.

  “As a matter of fact . . .” Nash says quietly from my side. At first I think I misunderstood him, but when I glance up at him, I see that his expression is stoic, serious. He’s willfully provoking her.