Revenge: The Complete Series (Erotic Rock Star Suspense Romance)

by Mimi Strong

  I’m on something—a pile of blankets, or a mattress. It reeks of body odor and filth.

  In a terrifying, high-pitched voice, the shadowy figure says, “You broke my nose. Such a handsome nose. All the girls love my handsome face. How about you?”

  He leaps toward me, landing on me as I’m struggling to get up.

  He’s all elbows and hard edges, pressing me down on my side, on the rancid mattress.

  I scream again, arms and legs flailing.

  “Jess?”

  The voice is distant, maybe a floor away.

  “Dylan! Help me! There’s a—.”

  My attacker’s hand is over my mouth again. I can’t see. No, it’s not his hand, it’s blankets or clothes, smothering my face.

  I scream and kick, my hands grasping out, in fists, and then as claws.

  The blankets press harder against my face, and now I’m gasping for breath, my mind and body pulling away from each other. Everything is slow now, like I’m underwater.

  The weight lifts off me. Am I conscious?

  I push my head free of the material and gasp for breath to scream again.

  There’s a growl, and a soul-shattering, inhuman noise.

  Forms roll away from me, limbs crashing into floors and walls.

  Someone whimpers for mercy and is silenced by the crunch of flesh.

  There’s a perfect square of light on the ground in front of me. I pick up Dylan’s dropped phone and shine it at the figures. The light catches Dylan’s fist coming down against the bearded man’s cheek. The man’s eyes roll up and he coughs, sputtering blood.

  At the sight of the blood, my stomach rolls and I drop the phone. The flashlight blinks off.

  There’s no movement now. My eyes are so confused, but my ears pick up the sound of breathing.

  “Jess?” Dylan’s voice is compressed, worried.

  “I’m okay,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Please don’t hurt him.”

  His form doesn’t move. My eyes adjust and he comes into focus, one hand grasping my attacker’s throat and the other hand raised high in a fist.

  “Please, Dylan,” I whisper.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  The man coughs again and groans, but doesn’t speak.

  “Not like that,” I say.

  The man coughs again, gurgling, and I see why he isn’t talking. Dylan’s choking him.

  I pick up the phone and scramble to Dylan’s side. I hook my hands under his armpits from behind and tug him back.

  “Dylan, let’s go,” I say, my voice pleading.

  He lets go of my attacker’s throat. The man’s head thuds against the wood floor, but he’s still breathing. He’s still alive.

  “Come on. Let’s go,” I repeat, pulling Dylan toward the door.

  It’s unlocked, and a minute later, we’re outside and going down the back steps.

  Dylan doesn’t say anything. He’s just staring straight ahead, like he’s seen a ghost.

  I grab his hands to check them. His knuckles are red, but not bleeding.

  We continue up to the front of the yard and leave over the same spot we came in. My adrenaline is flowing and I’m so strong, I practically bounce over the fence. At the sidewalk, Dylan turns the wrong direction, like he’s disoriented.

  “This way,” I say, and lead him back to the house.

  We cover the five blocks in no time.

  We step into my place, which is impossibly bright and hot compared to outside.

  This is real. I’m safe. Everything’s okay.

  The kitchen is a disaster. By the sounds of their voices, my roommates are in Amanda’s bedroom, listening to music and laughing.

  Dylan silently slips off his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair.

  Without a word, he crosses over to the sink and washes his hands and face with dish soap. I come over, stand beside him, and do the same.

  He grabs my hands and holds them tightly. He stares straight ahead, looking out the window over the sink, unblinking. There’s nothing but night beyond the window.

  His voice husky, he says, “I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “I’m okay, Dylan. I am. Tonight was a freak accident. I would never go into someplace like that alone, I swear. He just scared me.”

  “I shouldn’t have dragged you in there. I’m no good for you.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “The more you’re around me, the more you’ll get hurt. This isn’t just about tonight. People around me get hurt.”

  “Please don’t say that, Dylan. You’re going to make me cry.”

  He turns to me, his eyes wide and glistening. “Don’t,” he says gruffly. “Don’t cry over me. I’m not worth it.”

  My voice is so soft, it’s barely a whisper. “You are worth it. You’re worth any pain there is. And remember what I said when we met? Don’t underestimate me. I’m tougher than I look.”

  He reaches up with one hand and cleans my cheek with his thumb. “Jess,” he says. “We can’t be together.”

  His voice is so full of darkness and pain that it shatters my heart.

  “I don’t believe you.” I pull away from him and grab a towel from the bar across the stove. I hand Dylan the towel.

  He takes the towel and blinks at me, unmoving.

  I glance around the kitchen, and in an instant, I know exactly what to do. It’s like Nan is right here, in this house, at my side.

  Nan would say that it’s getting close to the Witching Hour. People always get funny around the Witching Hour, and that’s what’s happening to Dylan.

  The only cure, according to Nan, is to tidy up the kitchen and go to bed. So that’s what we’re going to do.

  “Do you want to wash, or dry?” I ask Dylan.

  He turns his head and gives me a sideways look.

  I start gathering plates and utensils from the square table.

  Pretty soon, Dylan catches a hint and fills the sink with hot water.

  I can’t think about what he just said, because I will start crying. He said I’ll get hurt just from being near him. Maybe he’s right. When he said we couldn’t be together, I started to hurt. My insides are twisting up right now, tying in knots over his words.

  My hands are shaking, and I have to be careful to not clatter dishes as I move them around. I don’t know if I’m shaking from the attack, or from the idea of Dylan breaking my heart.

  I just want this night to be over.

  We finish cleaning up the kitchen, and Dylan crosses the room to get his jacket off the back of the folding chair. He stands still with his back to me. I can’t see his face, so I stare at his arm, and his tattoos. The most prominent tattoo is an angel with big wings.

  I wonder if the angel is supposed to be the spirit of his wife. His dead wife.

  A chill passes through me as I imagine her watching us.

  That was freaky.

  I didn’t even know her, but the idea of her watching us is making my skin crawl.

  A million thoughts race through my head. I wonder if that’s part of the reason Dylan is so distant sometimes. Is he thinking about her when he’s kissing me?

  “The dinner was good,” Dylan says.

  His voice, suddenly filling the tiny room, startles me.

  Dinner feels like a distant memory.

  There’s no noise coming from down the hall. My roommates are fast asleep now.

  I start to speak, but my voice is rusty. I cough, then say, “Yes, the dinner was pretty good. I’m lucky my roommates are good cooks, because I suck at cooking.”

  “I’m sure you’re fine at cooking,” he says.

  He’s right. Whenever I want to make something, I look up recipes online and follow the instructions. Cooking isn’t that hard if you can read and pay attention.

  Why did I say I suck? There’s something about Dylan… something that makes me feel weak and inadequate. He’s just so gorgeous and perfect. I feel like an awkward dork, always getting myself in trouble, like tonight.


  I gasp for breath, feeling smothered by the memory. I need to shower. I need to get the smell of that place off me.

  But I don’t want to leave this room, or do anything to make Dylan leave. I want him to stay, to spend the night in my bed. I’m having difficulty saying that.

  “I should go now,” he says.

  “You don’t have to.” I cough again, and it brings back the smell of those rancid blankets. “It’s late. My grandmother would say this is the Witching Hour. You shouldn’t be out at this hour.”

  He turns and looks over his shoulder at me. His dark eyes are in shadow.

  He says, “I haven’t heard that in ages. The Witching Hour. Do you know what they call the hour before dawn?”

  I get another shiver that travels up my cheeks and makes me feel like I might start crying.

  “No. What?”

  His lip curls up in something like a grin, but not a grin. “The Hour of the Wolf. That’s the time of day when babies are born, and when people die.”

  The skin over my whole body pulls taut. I cross my arms over my chest. His tone is dark and dangerous, like he’s warning me.

  My voice is low and scratchy. “I haven’t heard that one.”

  He pulls on his leather jacket, and strides toward the front door.

  I run after him, asking where he’s going. I have a feeling he isn’t heading home.

  He stands on the step outside the door and turns his head so his face is in profile. The edges of him glow orange in the light of the street lamp.

  “I have to make sure you’re safe,” he says.

  He walks down the steps and turns in the direction of the vacant house.

  A cool breeze makes me shiver. I sink down until I’m sitting on the floor, my arms wrapped around my legs.

  “Are you coming back?” I call after him.

  He doesn’t respond, but I’m sure the answer is no.

  A million dark thoughts race through my head. I fight down the worst of them by trying to talk sense to myself.

  Dylan’s just checking to make sure the guy has moved on.

  I head inside and lock the door.

  Now I’m going to take a long, hot shower, and go to bed.

  I’ve got to work in the morning.

  It’s late now, and I probably won’t be able to sleep, but I have to try.

  Chapter 12

  Monday morning.

  The archives.

  Nick barely glances up at me as I shuffle off the elevator on the basement floor.

  I take a seat at my makeshift desk, across from him. I’m twenty-five minutes late. I offer him no explanation.

  There’s an envelope tucked under my keyboard. It’s not covered in dust and ancient grime, so it can’t be part of the boxed archives material.

  I thumb open the envelope’s flap, and a pile of money peeks out.

  The realization shoots through me and makes my face flush hot.

  This is the bonus money Morris Music offered me for sleeping with Dylan. I shove the money back in the envelope, fold it quickly, and stuff it into my bag.

  This money is for Nan, I tell myself. To help her pay for her new apartment. That’s all. It’s good money, for doing good things to help my family.

  I wait for the shame to pass, but I just feel worse. And I’m confused. Nick told me I’d get the money only if I got Dylan to agree to a meeting at Morris Music this week.

  “Nick, I thought the bonus was for—”

  “Mondays!” he shouts, cutting me off. He holds one long finger to his pierced lips. His eyes are wide, and dart to the side. “Mondays are the worst,” he says.

  I glance around us, looking and listening for other people. The archives are quiet. I can hear the hum of the fans on our computers, and nothing else.

  I turn and narrow my eyes at Nick. Is he playing a joke on me? Nick doesn’t seem like the joking type.

  He blinks three times. Is that supposed to mean something?

  “Mondays really are the worst,” I say. “I know it’s a bit early for our first coffee break, but I could really use a coffee.”

  Nick’s eyes flick to the side, then back to me. “We could go upstairs and get a coffee,” he says.

  I push my chair back, pull my bag onto my shoulder, and lead the way to the elevator. Nick follows me.

  The doors close, and we begin to move.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, whispering.

  At a regular speaking volume, he says, “Oh, we can talk in here. But nowhere else. Mr. Morris is back in town today. He was downstairs in the archives just now, asking all sorts of questions.”

  “Mr. Morris? As in, Mr. Carter Morris, the company’s owner? Wow. He’s a real visionary. Is he still down there on our floor? I’d love to meet him.”

  “Jessssss,” he says, hissing my name. “He can’t know about certain arrangements.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not a blabbermouth.”

  The doors open on the cafeteria floor.

  A handsome older man in a tailored suit stands alone in front of us.

  Nick gasps and takes a step back. “Mr. Morris. I thought… I thought you were downstairs in the archives.”

  Mr. Morris raises one silver eyebrow and smiles. “Really? And you were just going to leave me down there all alone? Without even asking for my coffee order?”

  Nick composes himself, and we both step off the elevator.

  Mr. Morris glances at the empty elevator, then back to us.

  “I’ll take the next one,” he says, turning a beaming smile on me. “For the moment, I’m delighted to meet our newest young hire. Jessica Rivera. How wonderful to have you join our company.”

  I feel myself melting under the sunshine of his smile. My hand rises on instinct to shake his. He has the perfect, ideal handshake.

  “I’m Jessica Rivera,” I say.

  His smile widens. “I know. That’s what it says on your keycard, which you’re wearing on a cord around your neck.”

  I look down at my keycard and see my own dorky grin beaming back at me from the photo.

  “That’s me,” I say.

  He presses the call button for the elevator.

  “Well, Jessica, it’s important to know who you are. I’d say it’s an essential key to success in the music industry, if not in any industry.”

  I stare into his eyes, lulled by his voice and his dazzling green eyes. With his snowy white hair and silver eyebrows, his eyes are utterly striking.

  He continues, “Knowing who you are is not the most important thing, but it is the second.”

  I ask hesitantly, “What is the most important thing?”

  He purses his lips a moment, then smiles. “Being on time.”

  The elevator doors open and he steps on.

  “Welcome to Morris Music,” he says.

  The doors close, and a second later, Nick exhales and gasps for another breath.

  I frown over at Nick. “Why are you so tense?” I ask. “He seems really nice. Except for that thing about being on time. That was freaky. If he wasn’t in the archives, how did he know I was late?”

  “Shh,” Nick says. “Let’s do nothing today but talk about the weather. Or nail polish.” He takes another deep breath and leads me over to the cafeteria line. “I don’t care about nail polish, Jess. Do you?”

  I look around the cafeteria. It’s mostly empty, too early for most people’s coffee breaks.

  “Nick, I could use a guy’s perspective on some other things. I don’t really want to talk about nail polish.”

  He grabs the biggest size of paper cup and starts filling it with hot, black coffee.

  “Is this about a certain musician?” he asks quietly. “Because if it is, please wait until we get downstairs.”

  “Just random stuff. I don’t know.”

  I’m still shaken up from the attack last night, but it’s not bothering me nearly as much as my conversation with Dylan. I don’t want to talk to my friends back home, or my roommate
s, so that leaves only Nick.

  “Yes, it’s about Dylan,” I say.

  Nick shakes his head, takes his coffee, and walks away from me.

  Nick’s being weird, even for Nick. This paranoia must be another interesting facet of his Casper the Unfriendly Goth personality disorder.

  I pour myself a coffee and hit the sugar station to doctor it up. A guy comes up beside me and makes a joke about me having some coffee with my cream and sugar.

  He’s tall and cute, with tousled light brown hair. In another life, I’d care about this guy flirting with me. He might even find himself the object of my new work crush.

  But I barely glance at the guy, because my mind is elsewhere. I’m only getting this gallon-drum-sized coffee because I was up all night thinking about Dylan.

  Everything was going so well yesterday. Even dinner. And I would have expected dinner with my roommates would be a disaster. But Dylan was so relaxed and comfortable that he made having dinner with my liar half-sister feel easy.

  I shouldn’t have been such a chicken about the abandoned house. If I’d gone upstairs with him, I would have been safe. By his side. The squatter guy would have stuck to the shadows and never bothered us. I wouldn’t have gotten pushed down onto that…

  No. I need to stop thinking about the attack. This is why I couldn’t sleep last night. Imagining what could have happened next. Thinking about how much I wanted to choke that guy myself. These aren’t good thoughts. Not productive, useful, practical thoughts.

  Things happen in life, and you need to move on. When the past comes calling, don’t listen, because the past has nothing to say.

  I’d much rather think about the future. Once Dylan signs a development deal with Morris Music, everything’s going to be perfect. They’ll promote me up from the archives, hopefully to a department where I can help Dylan’s career.

  I get to the cashier to pay for my coffee and find I didn’t bring my wallet. I reach into the bag on my shoulder and pull a bill from the envelope. It’s a hundred.

  The cashier groans and asks if I have anything smaller. I look around, my cheeks flushing hot. People are staring, and I get this paranoid feeling. They know this is whore money. They can’t possibly know, but I can’t help how I feel.