by S. M. West
“I’m Maggie.” I point my finger at Nick. “His prisoner.”
“Cut it out.” Nick scowls, narrowing his eyes at me.
Gone is compassionate Nick, although I started it. And he’s beyond tired, with dark circles under his usually vibrant eyes.
He stayed up all night watching over me, not to mention the chase and adrenaline crash we both experienced. I’m wrung out and can only imagine how he feels.
“Fine.” I won’t say sorry, although I am.
We’ve both been through a lot, and he’d be in better shape if he’d ditched me. I’m thankful he didn’t.
His jaw twitches, and he glowers, raking his hand through his windblown hair. “I’m not in the mood for your mouth.”
He makes it sound like he might actually enjoy my sass, but now isn’t the time. And that does it. Thinking about my mouth leads to thinking about his, then my mind wanders willingly to the one thing I swore I’d never think of again. Our kiss.
His mouth on mine. My eyes drop to his plush lips and the dusting of dark, rough stubble, contrasting with the softness of his mouth. I can almost feel the abrasive rub of his scruff on my face.
As if lit by a match, my core burns and cheeks flame. He kissed me. I kissed him. And dammit, I liked it. A lot. So much so, I thought I’d try again but got smacked down. Ouch.
I’d have thought nothing could have erased my fear of the dark, confined space in between those rocks, but Nick Prophet can kiss. Damn him. I’ve never wanted something more than my next breath until Nick’s kiss.
He’s a bastard, this I know, but even still, there’s something about him—rare glimpses of kindness—that thaws my icy insides. And I hate that I like him. That I like how we worked as a team last night. That I’ve glimpsed deep down into his soul and seen his heart. Felt it and benefitted from it.
Nick cocks his head to the side almost as if reading my mind, his gaze heavy on my body. I curl my fingers into my palms fighting the urge to touch his lips. Kit watches us.
I tear my gaze from his mouth to his bruised face, grimacing at the now ruddy-brown blood caked on one side of his jaw and throat. He scrubs harshly down his face and yawns. He doesn’t have the energy to spar with me.
Done with me, he brushes past, and loss slices through me. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I sad if he really is done?
Blurry-eyed and delirious from exhaustion, Nick slumps against the wall to catch his breath or strength or something before coming back for me. I think he forgot about me.
His fingers curl around my bicep, drawing me toward the narrow staircase, lining the back wall, then turning at a ninety-degree angle about two-thirds of the way up.
I tilt my head back, staring at the skylight and what looks to be a balcony edging the second floor. The wooden pickets aren’t very high, reaching no further than mid-thigh. This place is old, built when people were smaller and shorter.
“I gotta crash.” He shares a look with Kit, one that says way more than I’m able to decipher.
Kit hangs his head briefly before saying, “Leave her.” Even with his offer, it’s clear this man doesn’t want to be left alone with me. “I’ll watch her.”
And I’m torn because as much as Kit seems like he’s an okay guy, or as okay as one can be for being an accomplice to kidnapping and who knows what else, I know Nick. Or at least I know he hasn’t tried anything on me. Kit, I’m not so sure about. It would be easy for him to do whatever he pleases while Nick sleeps.
Nick sighs in relief, releasing me to walk toward a door tucked under the staircase. “Come here.” He motions to Kit.
With Kit’s back to me, his large posture forms a wall and I can’t see a thing. They whisper, the odd word flitting my way.
Nick mentions the car bomb before lowering his voice further. He’s obviously decided to tell Kit some of it, if not all. It makes sense since he’s leaving Kit to watch me.
He’s likely warning Kit not to fall for any of my tricks. Little does Nick know, I’m too tired to escape, let alone do anything else but sleep.
They talk for what feels like forever. Kit peers over his shoulder in my direction occasionally before ending their talk.
Nick shuts the door he was leaning on, and soon after, the sound of water filters into the room.
Kit takes up residence in the rocking chair and ignores me. Twenty minutes later, Nick exits with a white towel wrapped around his trim waist; beads of water glistening along his bare, chiseled chest. His ink is darker, almost angrier, on his bronze skin than when I first met him.
With his hair wet and fingered off his face, the alluring lines and slopes of his defined brow, cheekbones, and jaw are even more prominent. He looks both more handsome and more beaten.
A huge purple welt spans the underside of his chin up one side of his face. God, I really got him good. He’s lucky I didn’t break his jaw. He must have one hell of a headache.
He pours a glass of water, guzzling its contents and refilling it. My gaze never strays from him, greedy for a glance or a word, but Nick gives me neither.
With glass in hand, he takes the stairs two at a time. His taut back muscles bunch and stretch with each step, and I swallow with difficulty, an unquenchable thirst creeping up my dry throat.
Kit continues to ignore me for the first few hours. He starts a fire, even leaving the cottage to get wood. My ankle is swollen, and I’ve got it elevated, but what I really need is ice. The fridge, no bigger than a locker, wasn’t plugged in, so while it is now, it’ll take some time before we have ice.
I huddle close to the fire, and soak in the warmth. Replacing the throbbing of my ankle or any of my body’s discomfort is the fact that I can sleep. Kit sits in the corner with a book propped open and reads.
My fatigue weighs down my eyelids and my mind surrenders to sleep.
A few hours later, I awake to find Kit in the same spot. Rolling onto my side, my head resting in my palm, I stare at him. “You like Dickens?”
His guarded hazel eyes peer over the top of the book, nodding. It’s a silly question, I suppose.
“Is that your favorite?” The story comes back to me, and my question now carries more significance.
“It was my mom’s.” His voice is low and gruff.
“Did she name you after Kit, the character?”
He nods, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve read it?”
I sit up. “Yes. The Old Curiosity Shop is one of my favorites, although it’s sad.”
“Life is sad.” He’s resigned, his expression blank.
Not wanting to go down that path, knowing all too well how true that is, I say, “I also love Great Expectations.”
“I have that one, too, if you want to read it. Or I should say, reread it.”
A smile blooms across my face like the warmth spreading through my belly. I like him. He seems sweet, making me think of the character Kit in the book.
I don’t know the man’s mother or her reasons for choosing that name, but he is kindhearted like the character. And the funny thing is, as stereotypes go, you’d think most men who look like him wouldn’t read, let alone enjoy it, or if they did, they wouldn’t admit it. But Kit glows while we talk about novels.
“Really? I’d love to. It’s been years.”
He rises, ambling over to the small bookcase with only four shelves. I didn’t even notice the books until now. I’m surprised because this place is tiny, but I did have a lot on my mind when we arrived. Still do.
He runs his finger along the spines, stopping at the book he wants. Pausing, he glances over his shoulder at me. “Do you like Fitzgerald or Williams? I’ve got The Great Gatsby and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?”
What are the chances of my mother’s favorite play being mentioned twice in one day? The universe can be freaky. I shiver, and Kit raises his brows.
“I’ll stick with Dickens, thanks.” I hobble to the couch.
Handing me the book, he sits beside me and I work up the nerve to ask one of the cou
ntless questions I have.
It’s a fine balance between wanting to grill him and knowing if I do, he’ll clam up and I’ll have nothing to show for it.
“Who lives in the big house?” I shift in my seat. “Are we trespassing?”
Part of me hopes we are. Maybe then, any second now, the police could storm the walkway with my freedom only minutes away. Yeah, right. Something tells me these guys aren’t that stupid. And I’m not that lucky.
“It’s Nick’s.” Kit’s nose is in his book, but his body’s too tense to really be reading.
“Really? He owns this place too?” I’m referring to the house from yesterday and now this cottage.
Who is Nick Prophet? And why does he have numerous properties in Quebec? I wonder if he has many in Toronto too.
“Yeah.” His trepidation evident in his short, supposedly absentminded answer.
I won’t push, doubting he’ll give me much more. My focus is befriending him. Annoying him isn’t smart. Opening my book, I slouch into the cushions, and he releases a low sigh, almost in relief.
We read some more before he fixes lunch. It’s then I notice the cooler on the floor. Taking out bread, cold cuts, a jar of pickles, cheeses, and condiments, he doesn’t say much while preparing our meal, but he’s kind enough to ask what I want on mine.
With a hearty sandwich and a cup of tea each, we eat in silence. If it weren’t for the fact that I don’t know where I am or who this guy is, I could pretend I’m just having lunch and reading a book with a friend.
Out of nowhere, the book drops to his lap and his fingers are on me, brushing lightly along the red rings around my wrist.
I jump, mouth wide open at his tenderness. Our eyes lock. His are drowning in worrisome questions that I doubt he wants the answers to. Nick matters to him.
“What happened?” He mashes his lips into a firm line.
He knows without me having to say a word. Perhaps once Nick tells his side, he’ll excuse his friend, but for now, he’s asking me, and I’ve only got one word for him. “Nick.”
He flinches and clenches his fists on top of his large trunk-sized thighs. A thud from above—Nick—breaks our heavy, loaded moment.
Our gazes rise to the ceiling, both pausing and holding our breaths, waiting for Nick to come down. But we wait, and after many minutes, all remains silent.
13
Friday 12:53 PM
Nick
“He’s a good guy,” Kit offers in defense.
I’m not sure what they’re talking about, but the ‘he’ Kit refers to has to be me. Maggie snorts, and although I only see her profile, I imagine she’s rolling her eyes.
I’m perched on a step and have a clear view into the room. They sit side by side on the couch, and neither has noticed me.
“Yeah, right, because good guys kidnap people.” She’s flippant, and Kit stiffens.
She has him there, and I don’t expect him to defend me. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but given how things went down, I’d do it all again.
“How long have you known him?” She may not have moved past what I did to her, but she’s interested.
“Since high school. We go back twenty years. He’s been there for me more times than I can count.”
“What’s he mixed up in?” She doesn’t miss a beat.
Isn’t Miss Maggie Mae full of questions? I’m surprised they’re only talking about this now. Why didn’t she grill him sooner, since I’ve been asleep for hours?
“He’s being used. There’s a war, and Nick was the bullet used to fire the first shot.”
Burning my gaze into the back of the big lug’s head, I will him to shut up. Maggie is too smart.
“What kind of war?” She sits up straighter, deeply invested in what he has to say.
Kit, shut the fuck up. He keeps talking. “A turf war over guns.” He releases a growl, maybe realizing he’s said too much. “Fuck, let’s not talk about this.”
“Kit, what about me? Where do I fit into all of this? I’ve got nothing to do with guns.” She pushes onto one knee, hissing with the pain of her ankle.
“Aww, shit, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He squirms, uncomfortable with justifying my actions. Kidnapping.
It irks me because I’ve told him everything. He knows the situation and that, chances are, she isn’t the victim in all this, but his answers suggest he believes her. He thinks she’s innocent.
“Why won’t he let me go?” Her voice is soft, almost pleading. Damn, she’s good. If she keeps going, she’ll shred his heart and he’ll let her go.
“He needs you.” He turns to face the now-dwindling fire.
“No, he doesn’t. I’ve got nothing to do with this.” She’s agitated, and if I didn’t know better, I’d buy her confusion. “This isn’t my fight. Can’t you talk to him? Get him to let me go?” she begs, taking his big hand and clasping it in between her slender ones.
Shifting, he faces her, and I know I have to break this up. Kit is a big softy, especially with women. He’s no match for Maggie.
“He has you…” Kit starts, and I thunder down the stairs.
“Hey, you guys hungry?” I ask, and they jump; startled gazes swing my way.
Maggie slices me with one of her cutting glares. Aren’t I special? But then her eyes soften unexpectedly, whereas Kit’s expression is shadowed with guilt. I had to stop him. I hate putting him in this situation, but he has already said too much.
“I could eat.” Kit rubs his hands together.
“We just ate. How can you eat? I’m stuffed.” Her gaze lands on me. “May I have a shower?”
I nod. “Sure. Do you need help?” I stop mid-stride to the cooler.
“No, thanks. I can do it.”
“Okay, I’ll grab some clothes.”
With an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from when I was a teenager, I find her sitting on the toilet seat, waiting for me.
“Here, this is all I have. They’ll be loose, but they won’t swim on you.” I rest the clothes on the old cracked sink. “I’ve got a hoodie if you’re cold.”
“Whose are these?” She examines the clothes.
“Mine from when I was a kid.”
She cocks her head to the side, now studying me intently. If I knew her better, I might understand her look, but I don’t and can only wait for her next question. The one written all over her face. “You used to live here?”
“Nah.” I raise both hands to grip the doorframe. “I used to visit when I was younger.”
My shirt rides up, the waist of my jeans riding low on my hips, revealing my stomach. The tip of Maggie’s pretty pink tongue licks her lips, her eyes glued to the sliver of my exposed flesh.
I watch her watch me. She finally tears her gaze from my abs, leaving my skin fevered and groin aching for something I can’t have.
She releases a pent-up breath, her cheeks red. “Whose house is this?”
I don’t want to talk about my grandmother’s house, my mother’s birthplace, especially when my balls feel like they may explode. Being in the cottage is a necessity but also a landmine of heartache.
My face is strained and closed off, conveying all that I won’t say. Luckily, Maggie is no fool and averts her gaze to the clothes in her lap. I tilt her chin up, needing to touch her even though I shouldn’t. Her mystic eyes, turbulent with thoughts I can’t fathom, meet mine.
“Do you need help?” I dip my chin in the direction of her foot and she shakes her head no. “Okay. Just holler if you need anything, and when you come out, I’ve got some stuff for your… um, your bruises.”
I brush my finger over her wrist; she’s cool and soft to the touch, and she shivers.
Kit’s waiting when I return, hands on hips, stance as wide as his shoulders. “Shit, Nick.”
Now that he’s talked to Maggie, he’s even less all right with what I’ve done. And what can I say?
“I always knew you pushed the limits, but you’ve got some stones kidn
apping an innocent—”
“I had no fucking choice.” My teeth grind as I curl my fists at my sides. “And who the fuck says she’s innocent?” My eyes burn with fury. I don’t need his bullshit guilt trip. “We’re not doing this.”
“She’s in the shower.” He lifts a hand dismissively. “Now’s the only time we’ve got.”
“No. It’s done, and nothing’s going to change it.”
“Let her go. You’ve got options.” He relaxes his posture, hoping to soften my position. “I’ll drive her to the train station and get her back to Toronto.”
Fuck, I hate how much of a Boy Scout he is.
“Seriously? And who do you think her first call will be to? They’ll be on us like flies on shit.” I growl at his naiveté—he knows better, but a pretty face has him all messed up.
“Drop this. I need her. My plan is the best option, and you know it. It’s the only way to get out of this fiasco. It’ll satisfy the Russian. He’ll get something for my supposed theft of his cargo—let’s forget I didn’t know I was fucking stealing it.” My sarcasm spews like venom.
“And it will teach the weaselly British wanker a fucking lesson.” My English accent needs some work, but Kit gets the point.
“There are other ways. Maybe not as clean, but we’d still walk away in one piece. It would mean not sticking it to Slaughter, but fuck, Nick, think this through.”
His bleeding heart pisses me off. Doesn’t he know since the shit hit the fan, I’ve spent every second looking at this from every angle? I’ve weighed my options, and while Maggie wasn’t originally part of this, she inserted herself.
Now I’ve got her, and I’m going to play her. I’ve been in this crazy-ass life for decades and would be a fool to let her go. She’s the proverbial stone that will kill two birds. Use or get used is the way of this world, and I’m a survivor.
“Gimme the number for the Brit.” I hold out my hand. “Keep an eye out for her.”