Bound (The Devil's Due Book 3)

by Eva Charles

  “I know what it is,” he responds gruffly.

  “This is delicious. You should eat before it gets cold.”

  “And …”

  Oh, for the love of God. “And the King story has a lot of promise.” I hear the frustration in my voice and wonder if he hears it too. “It could earn me at least a nomination.”

  Sinclair still hasn’t taken a single bite of food. He’s fixated on me, as if waiting for some kind of grand declaration of truth.

  “I realize it’s something you don’t understand. But it’s important to me.” I peer into his rich brown eyes, until I reach the soulless bottom. It’s a place I’ve never been—not even at the apartment. He’s ruthless. At least he can be. For the first time, I see a flash of danger in him.

  But is he a danger to me?

  I put down my fork to pull a thin wrap from my bag and drape it over my exposed shoulders while he watches quietly. “I want the prize.” I shrug. “It’s the truth.”

  And it is. I’m chasing a Pulitzer. Not the one that was rightfully my mother’s. Nothing can change that. But I’m chasing it just the same so that I can at least make sure she gets some of the recognition she deserves. I don’t tell him that part. It’s none of his business.

  His eyes still haven’t wavered, but I keep shoveling in the savory grits, each mouthful accompanied by a bite of succulent shrimp, ignoring the scrutiny as best I can.

  I’ve wolfed down a healthy portion of my grits and a generous square of cornbread by the time he picks up his fork and points it toward my half-empty plate. “I hope you’re planning on saving room for dessert. Miss Jolene’s chess pie is legendary.”

  I raise my brow. “Remind me why I didn’t leave earlier?”

  “Because I’m an enigma, too. And I don’t know whether you like puzzles, but you’re curious by nature, and you do like answers.”

  I’m drawn to him because he’s an enigma. Is it that simple? I watch him take a forkful of food, scooping up the grits with a bite of shrimp, just like I’ve been doing. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell what draws me to him because I’ve muddied the waters. I’ve enjoyed at least a dozen orgasms with his name on my lips, and still more where he featured prominently. Most of them were mind-blowing orgasms that tore through my body and left me comatose. It makes it hard to hate him.

  I should have been more disciplined. It might not have mattered. Maybe I was attracted to him even before I had a single one of those orgasms. Maybe it happened when he slid into the booth across from me at Tallulah’s, or at the apartment when his rock-hard cock dared me to stroke it. Maybe it happened last year when he told me, in that voice, that he’d personally escort me off the property and out of the state if I tried to get anywhere near Zack Wilder. Or maybe I’m attracted to assholes. History certainly bears that out.

  We finish dinner without attacking one another like rogue chimpanzees in the monkey house, and without any more scathing self-analysis on my part. I tell him about Fiona and the boys FaceTiming with me at the crack of dawn, how they were dying to spill the birthday secrets, and he tells me about his nieces. All five. He jokes that he’d do anything for a nephew, but the glow on his face gives him away. He adores them and couldn’t care less that they’re girls. I’m sure of it.

  As I watch him with his guard down, I know exactly why I stayed for dinner.

  Shortly after our plates are cleared, Miss Jolene appears with an enormous slice of chess pie, dusted with powdered sugar. There’s a single slim candle atop the pie. The flame flickers gently as she sets the plate in front of me. Jasper’s with her and the waitstaff, too. They sing “Happy Birthday” with everyone on the porch joining in.

  My brain is slogging, the cogs turning slowly through the muck. The revelers seem far away, as though I’m a bystander at my own party, watching safely from the distance.

  I’m overwhelmed. My eyelashes are wet, splashing a drop or two onto my cheeks every time I blink. I glance at Sinclair. He’s not singing but has a look of concern. “Make a wish and blow out the candle,” he urges as they sing the last note. And I do, to whoops and cheers.

  Before the smoke dissipates, everyone disappears, and the porch diners go back to their own conversations. Now it’s just us.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “You don’t look all that thankful. You look a little pasty. All I said to Jolene was to send over an extra big piece of pie because I was still hungry and it was your birthday. I should have known she’d make a fuss. I take it you don’t like a fuss?”

  “No, it’s not that. It surprised—I didn’t expect—”

  “I thought the Taurus loved to be the center of attention?”

  God, even that smug little smirk is panty melting. “So you’re an expert on astrological signs, too. Do you use them to profile?”

  “Hell, no.” He shakes his head. “I’m a Taurus too.”

  “Oh.” I sit up tall. “When’s your birthday?”

  “Next month.” He swipes one of the fat blackberries garnishing the dessert plate and pops it into his mouth. “Will you take a bite of that pie, already, so I can have some? I’m drooling over here.”

  We finish the pie and linger over the after-dinner drinks Jasper sent to the table. It’s dark now, with a waning moon and a smattering of stars across the sky. The porch is dark too, just the small votives and a few strands of jazzy lights twinkling overhead. Almost every table is empty, but I can’t recall a single person getting up to leave.

  I sip the strawberry cordial. The burn at the back of my tongue is dulled by the sweet macerated strawberries at the bottom of the glass. I have a suspicion this is potent stuff masquerading as a gentile concoction you might find at a ladies’ tea.

  All and all, it’s been a nice evening. Better than I expected when I reserved a table for one.

  I twist my fingers in the silence and wet my lips carefully, stealing a quick glance at him so as not to get caught. But I’m not quick enough to evade his sharp eyes. “I played the stupid game—took the risk—because I was desperate for information.” As I talk, I focus on the beads of sweat forming on the water glass. They grow fatter and fatter, jiggling before sliding down the side and puddling on the placemat.

  “The King story is important,” I continue, with a heavy heart. “Not just for the country. I am chasing a Pulitzer—not for me, but for my mother.” I live with this every day. It’s a central part of who I am. But only a handful of people know, and I’m not sure why I’m sharing something so deeply personal with Sinclair, but I don’t stop. “Right before she got sick, she spent a year investigating the foster care system in Boston. After she died, the story was written from her notes, but she was never given any credit for her work. Not a mention.”

  Sinclair rubs the back of his fingers over an unshaven jaw. “What happened with your mother?” he asks cautiously, like he knows the answer might break me.

  “You don’t know?” I thought he had researched everything about me. That there were few surprises left.

  He shakes his head. “Only that she was a reporter who died of a rare cancer not long after you were born.” The candlelight has softened his features, casting a gauzy shadow on his cheek.

  “A very rare cancer. She didn’t get the treatment she needed because she was pregnant—with me.” The last part trails off, as though I’m embarrassed to say it out loud. And it crosses my mind, as it always does, that I will be judged unworthy of such a sacrifice. I certainly don’t blame anyone for considering the question. It’s human nature, and there have been plenty of times when I questioned my own worthiness. My fingers find the napkin in my lap, and I caress it gently, trying to soothe myself with the starched cotton.

  “She was a devout Catholic and didn’t believe in abortion,” I continue. “I’m not entirely sure, but I think Father Tierney, our parish priest, assured her that God would forgive her if she chose abortion. But she had always wanted a daughter.”

  I rest my elbows on the table, bringing my
clasped hands to my mouth. Sinclair is watching me. I feel it, but I can’t face him right now. “The treatment might have saved her life, or at least prolonged it.”

  My mouth is dry, and the last couple of words stick to my tacky tongue. I take a small sip of water and compose myself before continuing. “She chose my life over hers.”

  For a long minute it feels like everyone, and everything in the restaurant—maybe all over Charleston, has fallen dark and silent. The circumstances surrounding her death are not a secret. I’ve talked about it before, just not in some time. And rarely with someone who didn’t know her, or me, well.

  “That’s some gift,” he says with the utmost of care. His voice is a tender embrace, cloaking me in warmth. I don’t hear any judgment. “It must sit heavily on your shoulders.”

  I gaze at him, fighting back the tears. The world turns slowly, but forever forward, while I struggle to keep up. It’s almost as though he’s stolen my very breath with his words.

  He’s the first person who has ever said anything like that to me. Well-meaning people always say, she must have really loved you. And she did. She must have been an incredible woman. She was. But no one, no matter how kind, has ever said that her decision, her gift, is a burden. My burden. Not even the psychologist who I talked to when my teenage thoughts went to dark scary places suggested it. No one. And I’ve never said it out loud—not even to Fiona, because even to my own ears, it sounds selfish and ungrateful to harbor those feelings. So instead, I keep them buried in a small bleak corner of my heart.

  A tear escapes, and I whisk it off my face with a quick swipe of the hand.

  “That’s exactly how it feels sometimes.” I try not to let my mind wander too far into the shadows. It’s not safe there. “Only I don’t feel it on my shoulders.” My voice is wobbly. “The weight is here.” My hand finds its way to my chest, rubbing out the ache. “It makes it hard to breathe at times. Although not so much anymore.” I glance at him. “How did you know?”

  “I’m a soldier.” He intertwines his fingers and bends them until the knuckles crack. “Was. Always will be, I guess.” There’s muted laughter from inside, a background din reminding me we’re not alone. “On the battlefield,” he continues, “men bravely stand and take a bullet, or throw themselves on a landmine, or in front of a grenade. They give their lives selflessly so others can live.”

  Smith regards me with a profound sorrow that I’m certain lives inside his soul, concealed by the clever sarcasm and humor, obscured by the dimpled smile. “They leave families and friends behind. They go someplace we don’t understand—we don’t even know if it exists. It’s the ultimate sacrifice.” His voice is grave and raw. “That gift comes with tremendous guilt for the recipient, and a weight so heavy not all men are able to shoulder it. I’m sure it’s unbearable at times.” He gives me a small sad smile. “You’ve done good, Kate. She’d be proud of you.”

  I bury the sniffling in the back of my hand. “How about you? Do you carry it?”

  Smith shakes his head. “Not that burden. But I carry other kinds of guilt. We all do. It’s human nature.” He drains his drink and tosses the napkin on the table. “Come on, let’s get out of here and let them clean up. It’s been a long day for Jolene and Jasper, and first thing tomorrow, they start all over again.”

  He pulls out his wallet, and places some cash on the table, folded under a glass. “Don’t even think about it,” he growls before I can offer to split it.

  We don’t have the check. I look around for the waitress, but she’s inside. “How do you know that’s enough?”

  “Jasper will put it on my tab if I’m short. But it’s enough.” I glance at the bills more carefully this time. It’s enough. More than enough.

  “Where are you parked?” he asks.

  “I walked. I guess your guy wasn’t tailing me that closely.”

  Smith shakes his head. “It’s a nice night. I’ll walk you home.”

  “You don’t need to walk me home. I can find my way. It’s not that late, and there are still plenty of people on the street.”

  “I’m walking you home. It’ll give me a chance to hear your thoughts about King. I want to help you with the story.”

  He’s going to help me because I told him about my mother. I stop dead in my tracks. Isn’t that what I want—what I’ve been hoping for since we met? Yes. But his words are a slap in the face. I hate pity. Hate it more than anything. And even though I need the help, defensiveness takes over, and I clap back. “I don’t need your pity. And you don’t need to help me because you feel sorry for me—because it’s my fault my mother died.”

  Sinclair grabs my arm and drags me off the porch, to the side of the building where there is a thick row of flowering bushes. No one from the restaurant can hear us. His face is screwed up in a way I can’t read. “First, your mother died because of cancer.” His tone is cold and uncompromising.

  As I stand here captive, the perfume of the night jasmine quickly becomes too much. I cough to dislodge the tickle in the back of my throat, and wait for what comes next.

  “Second, you’re a strong, smart woman. You have a lot going for you. Why the fuck would I pity you?” He squeezes my arm above the elbow as if to make his point. “Helping you ensures that you stay away from the Wilders, and it gets you what you need. The way I see it, it’s a win-win.”

  It’s not about pity. It’s not even about me. It’s about helping the Wilders. Of course. I feel foolish. And maybe a tad disappointed. While I’m brushing off my ego, his eyes shift to where his hand is still clutching my arm. He releases the grip abruptly, as though my flesh is suddenly scalding. “Do you want the help or not?” he asks like he doesn’t give a damn if I say yes or no.

  I swallow my pride and grovel. “Yes. I’ll take whatever help you can give me.”

  Sinclair doesn’t say anything, but he takes my arm again, this time gripping gently below the elbow. He examines it, running two fingers over the cool skin. It takes me a minute to realize that he thinks he might have marked me.

  I don’t see a red spot, but it’s dark, and he has the better angle. “I’m fair. I bruise easily. It’s nothing.”

  “When a man puts his hand on you like I just did—without your consent—it’s not nothing.” He releases my arm. “But it doesn’t look like it’s going to bruise.”

  Smith motions toward the sidewalk, and we head in the direction of my house.

  “Thank you for offering to help,” I say when the silence becomes awkward. “I should have been more gracious. It’s just that I hate pity—from anyone. And thank you for dinner. I don’t think it’s fair that you always pick up the check, but I know you hate to let a woman pay for your food.” I’m on a spectacular ramble.

  He snickers, but it’s not mean-spirited. “I was just trying to get a rise out of you that day. I don’t really care who pays for the food as long as I get to eat.”

  “I’m not entirely sure I believe you. Sounds like hyperbole to me.”

  We stop at the crosswalk a block from Miss Macy’s, waiting for the light to turn green. He takes out his phone. “It is early,” he says. “You up for a nightcap and a game of pool at Tallulah’s?”

  I freeze in the middle of the sidewalk. “You know I play pool?”

  “Should I?” He slides the phone back into his pocket.

  “No! You shouldn’t. But it seems like you know everything else about me,” my hands are gesturing wildly, “and you brought up pool, so—”

  “You shoot pool?” The way he asks is so disarming, it lowers my blood pressure instantly.

  “I can handle a stick,” I answer haughtily.

  His mouth curls. It’s a smug, sexy curl that’s irresistible. “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “Sounds like a challenge, Miss McKenna.”

  “Put up or shut up, Sinclair.”

  14

  Smith

  Tallulah’s is crowded. I shepherd Kate to an empty spot at the bar and
wrangle a stool for her, but she doesn’t sit.

  “This is the waitress station,” she explains, like I’m an idiot.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you know how obnoxious it is when customers sit in the waitress station? It makes an already difficult job harder.” She drags the stool away from the bar, but I grab the wooden leg with my foot and yank it back. I’m rewarded with a sharp look when she realizes that she’s not taking that thing anywhere.

  “There’s one waitress on.” I point to the other side of the bar where Carrie is emptying a tray of empty glasses. “She’s working from the other station. This one’s never used because it’s too far from the tables.”

  She assesses the situation for a few seconds before sliding her gorgeous ass onto the stool.

  “Protecting the waitresses. Such a good girl,” I murmur. It’s meant to tease—a harmless tease, but the joke’s on me, because my dick jumps when I say it. “You okay with a beer, or you want to stick with wine?”

  “Maybe I want a girlie vodka drink.” She’s trying hard not to smile, but her face, and those fiery green eyes hide very little.

  “That strawberry cordial Jasper makes,”—it’s not for everyone’s ears, so I lower my head so I don’t have to raise my voice to be heard over the music—"that’s moonshine, baby.” When I stand back, her eyes are like saucers. “It has a way of sneaking up on you long after you expect it. I’d go easy for now. But you’re the boss.”

  “I’ll have whatever’s on tap.”

  Beau comes over and sticks out his hand, and I take it. “What’ll it be?” he asks.

  “Wet and cold,” I answer. “Something in a bottle.”

  “Got just the thing.” He pops the top off a couple pale ales and brings them over. “You want to start a tab?”