by Pam Godwin
The garrote was ready, taut between her fists. Breathe, Charlee. Three…two…one…
She slipped it from the pillow, shoved it beneath his chin, and crossed her fists behind his head.
Sirens blared and the overhead lights flickered on. Damn it to high heaven. She hadn’t thought of that.
His eyes popped open, and his hands shot to hers. “Charleeeeee.” His roar was a bad sign. Very bad. It meant she hadn’t yanked hard enough. He could still breathe…and scream.
He wrestled her for the noose, and the stomping of footfalls exploded through the door.
Pull tighter, dammit. He was gasping, hacking. His eyes rolled back in his head. It was beautiful.
A fist shot through her periphery, slammed into her eye. Then another. And another.
She couldn’t breathe. She clawed at her throat. The chain. Oh God, the chain was wrapped around her neck and a heavy weight crushed her chest. Roy stared down at her, his face a manifestation of hell itself. Even if she survived, she wouldn’t recover from this.
“Your eyes,” he whispered. “That’s the first thing I noticed about you the night Craig Grosky brought you to my doorstep. Big open windows.”
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t take a breath. Her lungs burned. The dark crept in from the edges.
He cinched the noose tighter, his face raging above her like a wall of nightmares closing in. She swiped a hand at him. He grabbed her flailing arm, bent it backward. Something cracked, and pain jolted through her shoulder and chest. Another blow landed in her side, and her lung burned as if stabbed.
She couldn’t scream, couldn’t moan, couldn’t inhale. Her eyes throbbed. She blinked through the wet darkness, tried to open them as wide as possible and fill them with her words. Would you survive my death?
He stared at her. His brows slanted in a V, the angle of his clenched jaw severe. She wasn’t getting through to him. He was going to kill her. It was there in his glare.
The part of her brain capable of processing her own end grasped onto a thread of optimism. He wouldn’t survive her death. She was certain of it, and the thought made her smile, as much as her contorted face would allow. Do it. Kill me. She was so fucking ready.
His eyes widened, but he wasn’t looking through them. They were glazed and far away. Had he come to the same realization?
He flung himself off her, and the sound of his footsteps marked his clumsy retreat.
She gasped for air, her throat on fire, her lungs straining. No punctured lung? Broken rib, maybe. She could no longer see through her swollen eyes.
“Everyone out. Salvador, ready my plane. I’m leaving now.”
She pulled the noose from her neck and gathered her useless arm close to her body. She cried out, miserable with pain.
“Now, Mr. Oxford? It’s two in the morning.”
A body thumped against the wall, followed by a gasp.
“I don’t give a fuck what time it is.” Roy’s voice bellowed from down the hall. “Get me the fuck out of here. She stays. No one goes in that room while I’m gone.”
The door slammed shut, and the quiet crept in. The prior minutes settled over her in a heavy fog of pain.
She made a mental perusal of her injuries. Swollen eyes. Broken arm. Possible broken ribs. She still had her teeth. She might’ve laughed at that if her throat wasn’t so damaged. Her body throbbed and burned as if on fire, and the sad thing was, the pain was beginning to feel just a little bit normal.
Maybe she should worry about her injuries being left untreated in Roy’s absence, but the buzz in her head weighted her eyelids. So fucking tired.
16
Charlee awoke to the bed jostling, lurching. How long had she slept? Darkness shrouded her vision and nausea rolled through her gut. Why couldn’t she see? She was so damned tired, drifting in a furry sort of haze. Or was it fuzz? Yeah, fuzzy.
Something pulled on her ankle and her leg felt lighter…free.
“Shhh. This might hurt.”
That voice. She knew that voice. She’d made it to heaven.
Steady hands tucked her arm next to her body. Stabs of pain skated through her shoulder, and she moaned.
Bedding wrapped around her, chin to feet. The mattress fell away and her body was lifted, cradled against a hard chest. Was she going somewhere?
“I…” She swallowed past the hurt in her throat. “Can’t…see. Book.” She jerked her chin in the vicinity of the table.
The forward motion stopped. “Got it.” He walked through the room. “We’re heading into the hall now. Don’t make a sound, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. “Noah.” She melted into the arms holding her so gently and pressed her face into his neck. “You came.”
He tightened his grip and shifted into a sprint. Just like her dream, he’d come to save her. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to bawl like a baby.
Footsteps emerged behind them. He jerked right, stopped, and pressed her mouth harder against his neck. A warning to keep quiet?
Where were they hiding? She pictured the penthouse’s layout. A closet, maybe?
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the monitoring room?” The unfamiliar voice was far enough away she was sure whoever it was couldn’t see them.
“Matthew let me step out for a smoke.” Another voice she couldn’t mark.
Her exhales were coming out so loud. She couldn’t help it. The damn injury in her chest was igniting with her panic. Could they hear her? She couldn’t stop shaking.
“Where’s Matthew now?”
“He’s still in there. It’s fine, man. Mr. Oxford put him in charge.”
The pain in her shoulder hammered. The trembling grew more violent, reaching deep in her bones. Please, leave. Shut the fuck up and leave.
“Mr. Oxford also said two guards should man the cameras at all times. And don’t forget. While you’re monitoring her, he is monitoring you. Get the fuck back there.”
The voices faded. He inhaled deeply. Then they were moving, around a corner, and…climbing? Stairs? What was up? The roof.
Metal rattled. Crisp outdoor air washed over her. In the distance, the whump, whump, whump of a helicopter approached. Fast.
“This might go to shit. Just hang on, okay?”
She tucked in, her body paralyzed with shock. Noah, the rescue, it was a dream. She was dreaming.
The wind picked up, and the whine of the helicopter’s rotor announced its descent.
He ran. She held her breath, tried not to pass out from the agony of her injuries battering against his sprinting body.
A gun fired. More followed. Behind them. In front of them. Footsteps and shouting rang out in every direction. She couldn’t see, couldn’t fight, and her consciousness ebbed and flowed with his ducking movements.
Clutching her to his chest, he lowered to a squat. The gun fight waged. Minutes felt like hours as she tensed against the pangs gripping her body. She soothed her nerves by picturing them concealed behind a wall, out of the path of the whistling bullets.
How much time had passed since Roy left? Was he turning his plane around that very moment? A barrage of questions piled up her damaged throat. Holding herself as invisible as possible, she waited.
Finally, he shot to his feet and dashed several paces, zigzagging left to right, setting her teeth on edge with pain. “Get this thing in the air.” He panted. Skidded to a stop. Twisted them, leaping forward, and landed on his back. “Go, go, go.”
The sheet unraveled enough to free her good arm. She tried to sit up, but he held her tight. The floor shifted below them, wobbling with the shift of the helicopter. The gunfire died down and fell quiet. A collective sigh released through the cabin.
“How?” She swallowed, flinched. “This rescue?” He’d accomplished the impossible, and if she had the strength, she’d pinch herself.
He lifted her and settled them into a seat, tugging straps around them, stabbing pain through her chest and arm. “Marines. I called in a favor.”
&nbs
p; The helicopter vibrated, and she gasped against the agony. “Nathan okay?”
His body tensed and caused hers to do the same. His hands were on her, but she could no longer feel them. A terrifying anticipation of something ugly and awful curled her fingers into a fist. She unclenched her hand, forced it to reach up and brush over his face.
Her touch met wiry hair from cheek to cheek. She didn’t understand at first. Her hand raked back and forth through the full beard she knew Noah couldn’t grow. If she rubbed it long enough, maybe he would pull her hand away and tell her it was fake. He didn’t. Instead, his chest began to buck and a sob escaped his throat.
She jerked her arm away and choked, “Nathan?”
He grabbed her hand, pulled it to his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“No. Where’s Noah?” She covered her mouth, couldn’t smother the horrible sound coming out of it.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
She didn’t have to see the pain in his eyes to hear it. She felt it throughout her entire body. She wanted a different answer. He couldn’t give her one. “When? How long…” Her voice was ugly. Choked. Dead.
“He didn’t suffer long. He passed within minutes of the shot.”
She’d lived two months without knowing, hoping he’d survived, yet girding herself for this likelihood. But as it pressed down on her, she couldn’t bear it. It hurt too damn much. “No. He was still breathing.”
Four Marines chatted quietly around her, voices she didn’t recognize, men who’d risked their life for hers. Nathan kept her clenched against him, careful of her injuries, and stroked her face. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He chanted it, over and over.
The whir of the passing wind, the vibration of the rotor, and the men’s chatter fell away. She was in such wrenching misery, she could only lay there in his arms and press her face against his cheek. Every sob pained the injuries. Tears burned her swollen eyes, mixed with his. She wept and didn’t stop until they reached their destination.
He gathered the sheet around her and carried her off the helicopter.
“Where?” It was all she could muster.
“The where is nowhere. We’re going to disappear, Charlee. And once we’ve regained our footing, we’ll get him. I promise.”
17
Three years later…
The clinking of silverware and the drone of whispered conversations sifted through Charlee. She bounced her leg against her seat in the vinyl booth and let the atmosphere feed her incessant need to crawl out of hiding.
The stiff presence across the table did not share her sentiment. Nathan perched on the edge of his chair, the seatback shoved against the farthest corner of the room where he kept an invariable yet subtle eye on their surroundings.
A server bustled by, trailing fumes of garlic from his raised tray. Her mouth watered. “I’m starving.”
He glanced at her. “You need to eat more.” His focus returned to the crowded dining room. “And you should cut your hair.”
She rolled her lips between her teeth and bit down. He could bitch all he wanted. She told him daily to go live his life. Not that she wasn’t grateful for his protection and his company. He was the brother she never had. With his parents long passed and Noah…all they had was each other. And he was going to blow his fucking top when he found out her agenda for choosing that specific restaurant.
“Dammit, I know why you won’t cut it.” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes as if wiping away images. “God, I know. It’s just…” He looked at the mop stringing around her shoulders and whispered, “With all that red hair, you’re too noteworthy.”
She twisted a finger around a lock. She hadn’t dyed it, hadn’t cut it in three years, and had no plans to. A small rebellion against the fuckhead who liked it short.
Their server approached the table and slid vibrant colored plates of elote and carne asada tacos between them. She flared her nostrils, inhaling the aroma of chili and lime. “I love New York City. Where else can you get authentic Cuban food?”
“Miami,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Or Cuba. Why don’t we go there?”
She’d chosen New York for a reason. What he didn’t know was she’d spent three years stalking The Burn on the Internet. She analyzed every song. Maybe she was nuts—was probably certifiable—but the lyrics seemed to be written about her, for her.
By the time she left the isolation of the penthouse, the band had reached stardom. They weren’t just popular. They were untouchable. Jay, Laz, Wil, and Rio were each iconic in their own right. They monopolized the cover of every magazine and Tonight show with miniscule activities about where they ate, vacationed, and who they slept with. Given their short careers, they should’ve been ranked among the rising stars, but The Burn had become legendary.
Jay was the least public of the four. No gossip or pictures of girlfriends. In fact, photos of him were difficult to dig up.
The band lived in L.A. but visited New York monthly. A couple days earlier, she tattooed a guy who had a friend who knew a roadie for the band. This roadie claimed that The Burn frequented the El Sabor Outpost restaurant on Friday nights.
It was Friday night, and her hope was as bright as the neon El Sabor Outpost sign above the bar. Oh God, Nathan was going to kill her.
She bit into a corn cob and the kernels squirted with sweetness. “So good.” She raised her eyes, watched him watch her eat. His lean frame, defiant posture, and bright blue eyes consumed her with painful nostalgia. She shook it off with a roll of her shoulder. “Why do you hate New York so much? We’ve only been here a couple months. Give it a chance.”
Another glance around the room. “He owns too many businesses in this town. Hell, he might even own this restaurant.”
“Bullshit. You’d know if he did, and we wouldn’t be dining here.”
He ran his private investigation business remotely, though most of his time was focused on gathering evidence against Roy. He’d made little progress in three years, and his frustration radiated from his pores. It seemed Roy Oxford’s payroll extended to members of the FBI and law enforcement in most major cities.
“Fine. He doesn’t own this one.” He squeezed a lime over a taco and dug in. “Yet,” he amended around a mouthful of shredded beef and dragged his sleeve over his clean-shaven chin. “We need to stay hidden until I can gather enough evidence to nail him.”
Screw hiding. She longed to confront Roy on the street and oust him where the oblivious world could bear witness. “I used to be a girl with ambitions and fanciful dreams, you know?” Her dream of teaching children to paint might not have been fanciful, but the notion still caught in her throat. “He took that from me. Now my only aspiration is running as far and fast as I can. I’m tired of it.” Damned tremors crept into her voice.
“Shh. I know.” He reached over the table and patted her hand. “I need more time. We have to be smart about this, and I’m regretting this move to New York. Three thousand miles doesn’t make us safer, sweetheart. He’s buying up corporations from coast to coast. He’s everywhere. And his”—he dropped his voice—”arms-trafficking activities are headquartered on this coast. Please be mindful of that.”
She slunk down into the seat. He was her voice of practicality and her only comfort. He was also an ever present reminder of the man she lost.
Despite her pleading, Nathan refused to return to his life in St. Louis. Roy was looking for an overweight, bearded man named Matthew Linden, not a thin, clean-shaven private investigator and Marine. And Nathan excelled at his job, covering his aliases and securing his connections. He was certain Roy hadn’t connected Matthew Linden to Winslow Investigations, which meant he didn’t need to be on the run with her. Yet here he was, taking care of her in some kind of noble dedication to Noah.
He picked up his fork. “How much money did you make today?”
Two tattoos. Not much, but inking out of his temporary PI office in the Village didn’t exactly tantalize would-be customers. “A hun
dred and fifty dollars.”
Laughter barreled from across the room and stole his attention. His eyes cut back to her, and they were stone-like in resolve. His you-don’t-need-to-work lecture was imminent.
She held up a hand. “Don’t say it. I earned this money to see Duke again. I made an appointment for tomorrow. Will you take me?” She straightened her backbone and waited for his disappointment. Just saying Duke’s name brought out his overprotective tension.
His face paled, and he pushed his plate away. “There are other kinds of therapy.”
The deadness in his tone raised her hackles. “The normal kind, you mean. And what exactly would I talk about with a psychiatrist?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That I was held as a slave and I’m on the run because my captor is too powerful to bring down? How many red flags would that raise? How much bribe money would it take for the therapist to turn my confession over to the man hunting for it?”
A swallow bobbed in his throat, and his eyes darted between her and the rowdiness across the room. “Then talk to me.”
She leaned over their plates and closed the distance between them. “I do talk to you. I tell you everything. And goddammit, you’ve seen it all firsthand.”
He closed his eyes, no doubt remembering the night in Roy’s dining room. Or his two months of monitoring the cameras in the stockroom. Or maybe he was reliving her first appointment with the Dom in Shreveport. He’d been adamant about remaining in the room during the scene. She was certain he regretted it, because he never attended another one, and her bondage therapy continued to be a driving wedge between them.
His eyes were closed for so long, she kicked his shin under the table. “Look at me.”
He did, with torment-glazed eyes, and their hands joined at the center of the table. Her relationship with him was a complex tangle of revenge and preservation. She suspected he loathed her and cared about her in equal measures. Noah saved his life in Afghanistan, and now Nathan had found a way to repay him by protecting her. Nothing she could say would deter him.