Then came Asher. I crossed my fingers and said a silent prayer, since I’d have guessed he was about as heavy as the two of us combined. He was slower than Carly, but faster than I’d been. I thought he was home free when, suddenly, I heard the sound of something tearing.
“Asher!” I cried, momentarily forgetting the need to keep quiet. But it was too late. The rope tore and my stepbrother plummeted five feet to the ground. I rushed to his side and helped him up. When he got to his feet, he stumbled and I had to strain to hold him up.
“Ugh, I think I turned my ankle,” he said, teeth grit with pain.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Just lean on me till we get to the car.”
“OK, this way. I parked just around the bend.” Carly started off across the gravel-covered lot in the direction of the street, moving as slowly as her jangling nerves would allow. Asher and I hobbled along after her. Keeping pace was a struggle. I didn’t know how long I could support Asher’s weight, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to leave him behind.
Finally, the getaway car peeked out from behind the trees at the edge of the road. A bright red BMW convertible—stylish, if conspicuous. Only a few meters more, I told myself. Carly got to the door well ahead of us and paused at the driver’s side door, looking down into the car. I got the feeling something was wrong—a feeling only exacerbated when I saw her put her hands slowly up and behind her head.
Clem Hoffman, previously prone in the backseat, sat up slowly. His left hand held a snub-nosed revolver, which he kept trained on Carly as he shifted his gaze to look at Asher and I, who were approaching from the other side of the car.
“Well, well, well,” he rasped, a bone-chilling smile on his face. “The gang’s all here. Did you really think I’d let you get—“
His supervillain-esque monologue was cut off by the crack of a pistol, and it wasn’t the one Clem was holding. It was Carly’s Beretta 3032, which she’d secreted in her wig and drawn in the split-second Clem was looking the other way. Though small, it packed a punch; the bullet went in the side of Clem’s skull, clean through his brain, and out through his left eye—the good one, for those keeping score. He died instantly.
“Hah! Cycloptic motherfucker thought he could take his one working peeper off Carly McGowan and get out alive. Not a fucking chance!” She set the gun in the front seat and turned to me. “Hey Leah, mind helping me dump this body in the ditch?”
That’s a question I never would have expected to hear, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have expected my answer to be “Sure thing!” But after everything Clem had put me through through in the past few days, I was more than happy to dispose of his stinking corpse. I only regretted that my stepbrother couldn’t have the satisfaction of helping out.
“Asher, you just hop in the driver’s seat and rest that ankle,” Carly suggested.
“Yes ma’am,” he said, and let me help him into the Beemer.
Carly opened the passenger side door, grabbed Clem’s feet and pulled him out of the car. I winced in spite of myself when I heard his head hit the pavement. I grabbed his arms and together, unsteadily, we carried him toward the guardrail, hoisted him over itand watched him tumble down the 30-foot slope toward the creek running below.
“Bye, Clem!” I said.
“Good riddance,” added Carly. As much as we would’ve enjoyed contemplating his untimely demise, there wasn’t time. The Seraphs inside Haskell’s had heard the gunshot and were saddling up to ride.
“Mind driving, Ash? There’s no time for a Chinese fire drill.”
“Sure thing,” he replied, “It only takes the one foot.”
Carly hopped in the back, allowing me to ride shotgun. Did she have Ash and I figured out? Maybe. But that discussion would have to wait. Once we were both in the car with the doors locked, Ash pulled a U-turn and roared toward the interstate with four Seraphim hot on his trail.
Carly emptied the rest of her clip in their direction, not really trying to hit anyone. Meanwhile, Asher tried to put as much asphalt between us and our pursuers as possible. There road was mostly empty, so losing the Seraphim in traffic wasn’t much of a possibility but, as luck would have it, there was a tanker truck out on the road that evening. Ash maneuvered into its slipstream which, in addition to improving the sports car’s gas mileage, gave the bikers second thoughts about firing back.
Caught between the possibility of a deadly conflagration and the likelihood that they’d run their tanks dry trying to chase us down, the Seraphim took the next exit and circled back around to Haskell’s, where they’d almost certainly spend the night plotting revenge for the death of their newly-inaugurated president.
“Well, looks like we’ll be taking a little vacation from Ithaca,” Asher said once he was comfortable we were no longer being followed. “Only question is where to.”
“Which way are we headed now?” I asked. Sense of direction had never been my strong suit.
“South,” he said.
“South sounds good,” I said. “What do you think, Carly?”
“Yeah, south sounds good.”
I reached across the arm rest and took Asher’s hand.
Chapter 18
Asher
“Thanks for, you know, saving our skins,” I said, with a glance back at Carly, once I’d recovered from the adrenaline rush of our escape and the subsequent chase.
“Think nothing of it. I owed you one.”
“How did you know where we were?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, pointing at Leah, “this girl got worried after you disappeared Saturday evening and tracked me down on Facebook. I didn’t think too much of it, but when I pressed Adam on the topic, he started acting really damn suspicious. Snapped on me, like, ‘How the fuck am I supposed to know where he is?’ Then I walked into the garage on Monday and found him screaming into the phone. ‘I don’t give a fuck what you do with him, just leave me the fuck out of it!’ He played it off as something to do with the Claque’s gun-running hustle, but I had a hunch something more was going on. So I disguised myself as a Seraphim sweetbutt, headed down to Haskell’s and drank and flirted with Lew till he started bragging about having his arch enemy, the legendary Asher Layton, locked up on the second floor. Like that was supposed to impress me or something. After another half hour or so, I asked him if he wanted to go upstairs and have a little fun. The rest, as they say, is history,”
I shook my head, “Carly, you amaze me.”
“Me too,” Leah said. “I kind of want to be you when I grow up.”
She laughed.
“By the way, Carly, I’m sorry Adam had to get wrapped up in all this.”
She sighed. “It’s cool. In retrospect, I think it was only a matter of time. Like I said, I knew I was going to lose him eventually. Just didn’t think it would be while he was still alive.”
We drove in silence for a while before Carly piped up again. “I have a question, and feel free to tell me this is none of my business. But are you two, like… an item? I mean, you were naked in bed together, now you’re naked in a convertible holding hands. It makes a girl wonder, is all I’m saying.”
“Well, it’s com—mph“
My stepsister slapped her hand over my mouth. “Yes.”
“Well, that answers that. Just wondering.”
I was embarrassed in spite of myself. “Don’t you think that’s, like, weird?”
She shrugged. “Nah. I know I said all that stuff to the contrary when we talked before, but after a brush with death like the one you two just had, I figure you know best what’s right for you. Plus, as of today you’re an outlaw among outlaws. I think that means rules no longer apply.”
“That makes sense.”
“Anyway, you two have my blessing,” she said, and ruffled both of our hair at once.
“Thanks, Carly. That means a lot.”
The sun had just about disappeared behind the wooded hills that lined the horizon. The sky shone with a special, pale luminescence only thos
e who have spent time in captivity can see—or appreciate, anyway. Onward we drove, into a future whose barest outlines we’d yet to discern.
But whatever was around the next bend, I told myself as I gave my stepsister’s hand a gentle squeeze, we’d be facing it together. And wasn’t that what mattered?
The End
Read on for a BONUS two-chapter preview of Tough, yet Tender #1, Cold-Cocked by Love!
Chapter 1
Lana
“Thank you so much!” I said, smiling a toothy accommodation-industry smile as I reached for the bill.
My fingers had just closed around it when a meaty hand adorned with a wedding ring clamped down on top of mine. The paunchy, middle-aged man seated alone at the table looked into my eyes. “Can I ask you something?” he asked, liquor on his breath.
I resisted the urge to jerk my hand out from under his and gave him a brisk nod. “Uh, yeah, sure. Shoot.”
“What’s your dream?” he asked.
Oh, God. He’s one of those guys.
“My…dream?” I echoed, pretending not to understand.
“What do you want to do with your life? I don’t mean to be nosy, but when I see a sexy, intelligent young woman like yourself spending her time working at a place like this, it hurts my heart. I have a daughter.”
Yeah, I’m young enough to be your daughter. And I’m not accepting applications for the position of ‘sugar daddy.’
I answered in as pleasant a tone as I could manage, maintaining my forced smile. “Oh! Well, you don’t need to worry about that. I’m working on a Master’s in computer science. After I graduate I’m hoping to start my own IT company.” As I spoke, I wriggled my hand out from under his.
His eyebrows shot up. “I see. That’s very impressive. Very, very impressive…” He glanced at my name tag, eyeballing my cleavage in the process. “Lana. You know, I’ve always been fascinated by computers. I worked with them a lot back when I was a cop. First guy on the force to figure out how the damn things worked! I could talk about computers for hours. Too bad you have work to do.”
Thanks for noticing, jerk.
He slipped his right hand into the pocket of his windbreaker. When it came out, the wedding ring was gone. “In fact, when does your shift end? If you’re not busy, I’d love to pick your brain about—”
“Sorry, I have plans,” I blurted, and hastily added, “but it was so nice talking to you!” And before he could say anything more, I scurried off to run his card.
On my way to the console, I passed my best friend, Rachel, coming out of the kitchen with a platter of fries in one hand and a French dip combo in the other. “White knight, cheating husband,” I said without making eye contact, and jerked my head subtly toward Mr. Fascinated by Computers.
“Crap. That’s a bingo.” she said under her breath. She disappeared into the dining area, trailing au jus fumes in her wake.
Later, when I returned to retrieve the check, I discovered that Mr. Computers had left me his phone number…and a measly four percent tip. Typical. You’d think the aging creeps would be the most generous but, more often than not, you’d be wrong.
The next time Rachel and I crossed paths, I muttered, “Make that bingo a yahtzee: he’s a lousy tipper, too.”
“Lucky. All I have is a drunk who won’t stop staring at my chest. Which is what, a measly 13 points?”
“The night is still young,” I said.
She shook her head. “Too young, if you ask me.”
Despite our talk of points, bingos and yahtzees, the “game” she and I were playing had no rules, no score sheet and no consequences—although one of us would occasionally insist we’d “won” in order to finagle free drinks out of the other after an especially grueling shift. It was mostly a joke at the expense of the parade of jerks and weirdos who walked through the door of O’Hara’s every night. A way of laughing, in order to keep from crying at the state of modern masculinity.
I know, I sound like a man-hater. Rachel always sounded that way to me, when, when she talked about some of her male customers. But you should reserve judgment till you’ve spent a month or two waiting tables. There’s something about having a 24-year-old woman at your beck and call that instantly brings out the worst in a guy.
The funny thing is that, when Rachel was trying to sell me on how fun it would be to work with her at O’Hara’s, male attention had been one of the big selling points.
“I’m telling you, Lana,” she’d gushed, “no guy can resist a sexy waitress. You’ll have hot guys’ phone numbers falling out of your snatch.”
I shook my head. “Number one, that’s disgusting. And number two, sexy?”
“Don’t even start. You’re gorgeous, as I’ve told you a million times. And smart. And funny…”
“And after I use the bathroom, it smells like potpourri, I know, I know.”
Her brow creased. “Do you, though? It doesn’t sound that way. Lana, you know how much I respect you—how selective you are with guys, all that stuff. But how are you going to find someone if you don’t tear yourself away from your computer every once in a while? I worry about you sometimes.”
Rachel had an ulterior motive, I knew: she wanted a friend around to keep her from getting bored at work. But she also had a point—not that I would ever, ever have admitted it to her face. Anyway, despite my generous scholarships, I didn’t have a whole lot extra to spend on myself.
What the hell, I thought. I’ll make a few bucks, and if Prince Charming happens to walk through the door of O’Hara’s with a hankering for the best burger in the tri-state area, I’ll be ready for him.
Well, Rachel had been right: I was getting plenty of attention. Unfortunately, it was all of the unwanted variety.
Mr. Computer and his four percent tip left me in a lousy mood. It didn’t help that, on the other side of the room, Rachel was twirling her hair as she flirted with a guy who was totally her type. I operated on autopilot, scribbling orders and delivering plates to tables, while pondering the reasons behind my total lack of a love life.
I don’t have Rachel’s bubbly, outgoing personality, or her confidence. I don’t have her flawless figure. Why should I expect the right man to fall into my lap? Maybe my sights are set too high. Maybe I should look into online dating. Yeah. I just need a catchy screen name…
I didn’t get the chance to think one up. My foot caught on something soft and suddenly I was flying through the air—along with a tray holding four beers and an order of buffalo wings, extra saucy.
Crash! Splat! I fell on my face. The suds, sauce and bleu cheese splattered all over my outfit—and the blue jean-clad legs of whoever’s bag I’d just tripped over.
“Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” I sputtered as I rose to my knees, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” said the owner of the legs. “I shouldn’t have left my gym bag there.” The voice was deep and masculine. Kind of intimidating, in fact. But there wasn’t a trace of anger in its tone.
I looked up. Oh, God.
If ever a man looked like his voice sounds, this guy did. Pardon the cliché, but he was built like a concrete wall. A ribbed white tank top clung tightly to an upper body that could have been carved from granite. His exposed arms were thick with muscle and covered from wrist to shoulder with intricate tattoos.
He had the face of an action hero, with a prominent brow, a chiseled jawline and a strong chin. His dark hair was close-cropped and he was clean-shaven except for a five o’ clock shadow that wasn’t quite well-groomed enough to look like a conscious fashion choice. His full lips were set in a straight, hard line.
Basically, he was masculinity personified. Except for one feature: his eyes: they were a deep blue you wouldn’t expect to see on a man with his hair and his olive-tinged complexion, and he had the kind of long, dark lashes girls caked on mascara to achieve. His gaze was flinty, but gentle: a hint of softness to go with that hard body.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
I realized that his hand was extended to help me up. Meanwhile, I’d been kneeling there, dazed, getting lost in those baby blues. I must look like such a damn dope.
“I’m fine. Thanks!” Flustered beyond belief, I jumped to my feet, refusing his hand. I shoved everything back on my tray as fast as I can and jogged to the supply closet.
I returned with an armful of paper towels and dumped them on the table. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” I said to the floor. “I’ll get you two some free beers as soon as this is cleaned up.”
There was a woman sitting with him now: a petite, pretty brunette in a blouse slightly too low-cut, and skirt slightly too short to be professional.
My heart sank as I dropped to the floor and started scrubbing. I’m jealous, I realized. Granted, even if this guy had somehow been single and interested in me, my awkward clumsiness would have turned him off instantaneously. But did I really need another reminder that stick-thin model types get all the guys?
After a second’s hesitation, he spoke. “You don’t have to—give us free drinks, that is. Seriously. These old jeans are going into the trash soon, anyway.” He was so calm and collected that it just made me feel stupider for being so flustered. I finished cleaning up the mess as fast as I could.
Ultimately, I asked Rachel to take over the table, even though it was outside her section.
“Are you sure, Lana?” She glanced at the man in front of whom I’d embarrassed myself. “He’s kinda hot.”
I was taken aback. She usually liked her guys a little more hip and metrosexual. “Yeah, he’s hot,” I finally said. “And I’m a hot mess. Just do me this favor, please, so I don’t crawl out of my skin in embarrassment. I’ll owe you one.”
She sighed. “Sure thing, Lan.”
“Give them some free drinks, too, OK?”
“Will do.”
Mercifully, Mr. Gym Bag and his girlfriend didn’t linger at the table. they stayed just long enough for him to pack away a quarter-pounder and her to swallow a few leaves of a Cobb salad.
A Step from the Edge (Tough, yet Tender Book 2) Page 9