by Callie Hart
The concierge of The Regency Rooms is a woman this time. She gives me an inviting smile as I head for the elevator, and I find that I’m smiling back, though not how I might have done before Sloane. Now I am polite, but I am also taken. I will never be smiling at another woman the way she just smiled at me.
Inside the elevator, the cell phone I left in my ride when I went to see Lowell chimes.
You told her what I told you to tell her?
212-776-4540 rcv’d 7:59 p.m.
Yes. She’ll be coming for you next week. You got everything planned out?
Sent 7:59 p.m.
I’ll be ready. Catch you on the flip side, brother-in-law.
Rcv’d 8:00 p.m.
During the brief conversation I had with Rebel earlier, the president of the Widow Makers told me to give Lowell the thumb drive he’d given to Sloane. Once I’d handed that over to the Agent, along with the password—Accordia—Lowell then had access to a group of files containing the personal details, locations and addresses of all the women Rebel had relocated. Lowell seemed almost disappointed that none of the women were dead.
Along with that information, Rebel also told me to give her the date he would be back in New Mexico. By the eighth of December, in ten days time, the Widow Makers will be back at their clubhouse, ready and waiting. I don’t know what his plan is. Technically Lowell can’t investigate him for the girls, who are all still alive, but she can come after them for Alexis. They’re crazy, but I understand why they want to face her. The same reason I had to face her today: so he and Alexis can get on with their lives. For there to be an end to this madness.
When I step off the elevator, the first sound I hear is that of breaking glass. I charge straight for the apartment I share with Sloane. Was I wrong? Maybe one of Charlie’s boys held a grudge. Maybe one of them found out where she was and decided to finish what the old man started. My pulse is hammering all over my body by the time I manage to get the door open.
Pippa is lying on the floor on her back, laughing hysterically. I come to a halt, one fist raised, struggling to understand what I’m actually seeing. Pippa on the floor? Pippa on the floor, laughing? She sees me, her eyes sluggish as she tries to focus on me, and lets out a shriek. “Zeth! Zeth’s back!”
I hear a strangled sound somewhere farther into the apartment—the bathroom, maybe? Sloane’s head peeks out in the hallway. “There you are!” She comes running and throws herself at me. Her arms wrap around my neck, her legs around my hips. She kisses me, and she tastes like beer. It takes me a moment to kiss her back. Not because I don’t want to be kissing her, but because I’m savoring the moment. Her lips on mine, her body pressed up against me. I was glad when she gave me some space yesterday—I needed it desperately—but right now having Sloane this close feels imperative.
I fix my arms around her back, fiercely holding onto her the same way she’s holding onto me. She stops kissing me then, and rests her forehead against mine.
“You’re drunk,” I tell her, in case she hasn’t realized.
“I know. You were gone.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It was worth it, though, I promise.”
“Michael’s sick. He drank himself sick,” Sloane whispers. She looks adorable like this, wide-eyed and more than a little drunk.
“Looks like you all did, huh?” She nods, and I have an overwhelming urge to carry her out of this apartment and away. I have no idea where, just away. Somewhere I can keep her to myself. Instead, I carry her to the bedroom and place her in the bed, fully dressed. “Take a nap. I’ll be back soon,” I tell her. She doesn’t need much convincing; her eyes are already dropping closed by the time I’ve covered her over with the blankets.
There’s broken glass all over the tiles in the bathroom—that was the smashing sound I heard out in the hallway. Michael’s slumped over the toilet, head resting on his forearm, completely out cold. “Fuck’s sake.” I just look at him for a moment, and I consider leaving his ass there. But I know why he’s like this right now. He was as close to Lace as I was. I can’t blame him. If I let a single drop of alcohol past my lips, I would be way, way worse than he is. I’d be catatonic. I’d be broken. I’d be dead. I couldn’t let that happen this time.
I grab hold of his wrist and lift him, hauling him up so I can lift him under his shoulder. It’s a short, awkward shuffle to the shower, guiding him so we avoid the pool of beer and shards of glass all over the tiles. My boy can’t stand up in the shower, so I stand in there with him, holding him up, and I crank the cold tap.
The frigid water sprays down on the both of us, and Michael nearly jumps out of his skin. Suddenly wide awake with the shock of the cold, he grabs hold of my shirt with both fists and yells.
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the hell, man?” I just hold him up, making sure he stays under the flow of the icy water. Anger flares in his eyes; he tries to push me away, but I hold onto him tight. “What the hell, Zeth?” he shouts.
“Just deal with it.”
“Get the fuck off me,” he roars.
“No.”
He hits me. It’s a good job he’s blind fucking drunk, or I’d feel compelled to return the favor. His blow is barely felt, anyway. I’m too numb from the cold, and to be honest, I kind of need it. I feel dangerously numb in general. He raises his fist and lashes out again, though this time there’s no intention to hurt. It’s a matter of seconds before he’s collapsing into my arms and he’s crying.
He cries silently, his body shaking with the power of it, and I let him. I love him for this. I love him because he loved Lacey. I stare at the grout in between the tiles, trying not to join him. I cried for Lace yesterday, though. I cried for the first time since my uncle decided it would be okay to raise his fist to me twenty-eight years ago.
“I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry.” Michael says this over and over again, as though he somehow thinks what happened to Lace was his fault. I don’t say anything, because I know he won’t remember. When he calms down and begins to take some of his weight on his own legs, I turn off the water and guide him out of the shower, careful around the glass again, and then into one of the unoccupied bedrooms. I give him a towel and his privacy, and go to check on the third component of this little free-for-all. Pippa’s fallen asleep in exactly the same position she was in when I rushed into the apartment, flat out on her back, arms and legs star-fished out.
A very large part of me wants to actually leave her there—be fucking uncomfortable to wake up on a cold, hard floor in the morning, which would serve the woman right—but she came here when I asked her to. And she didn’t call the cops when I went to her apartment. I suppose some people would call that progress.
I put her to bed in the third and final bedroom, and then I make sure Michael’s not choking on his own vomit. Fucking idiots. I have a quick, hot shower, and then I find myself standing in the hallway outside Sloane’s room. With all the spare beds now occupied, I should go and sleep on the couch. If not the couch, then in one of the rooms in Michael’s apartment.
The thing is…I don’t want to.
I really don’t fucking want to.
I let my hand hover over the door handle, weighing my options. I could sleep in a bed with Sloane and everything might be okay. I could sleep in a bed with Sloane and I could wake up and think she’s Charlie, and try and kill her. The risk just seems like it’s too much. Fuck. I pull my hand away, turn and head down the hallway, hating myself more and more with each step.
Charlie’s fucking dead. He’s fucking dead, and he should not still be able to fucking dictate my life. He should not get to ruin the one good thing I have going for me. It’s crazy. It’s absolutely fucking crazy that I’m still letting him.
I make a decision there and then that I won’t anymore.
I stop. I turn around. I head back to Sloane’s room before I can change my mind. No hovering outside the door this time. I go straight in, and Sloane is curled into a ball in the middle of the bed. Her breathing is sl
ow and even, the sounds of someone deep in sleep.
I can do this. I can sleep in a bed with her and not hurt her. I lose my towel, and climb into the bed, completely naked. As though she senses my presence, Sloane wriggles into me so her back is pressed against my chest. This is entirely alien to me. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do, so I do what I want to do—I wrap myself around her and I draw her in tight. This is so different to the time Sloane and I passed out on the same bed at Julio’s. This time I’m actually holding her, and I’m meant to be here. I fall asleep for the very first time with a woman in my arms. It feels like heaven.
I feel like I’m being cooked. I feel like my body is made out of lead. The world’s still dark when I wake up, and there’s a strong possibility I’m suffocating. For a moment it’s as though I’m paralyzed and I can’t move. Panic surges through me, setting my heart racing. But then I realize I’m not paralyzed; I’m merely being pinned to the mattress by a very heavy, sleeping man.
Zeth is in bed with me. Zeth’s in bed with me, and he’s fast asleep.
He did it. He got into bed with me, after all this time, of his own volition. I carefully turn over so I’m facing him, my nose pressing up against his collarbone, and I take a cautious breath in.
He smells incredible—a mixture of shower gel and something manly and distinct, something that doesn’t smell like anything else on this planet. It’s just Zeth’s smell, and I love it. My head’s pounding—I’ll have the hangover from hell by the time the sun comes up, but right now I’m at that in-between stage where I can still feel the alcohol powering around my body, but I’m stone-cold sober.
Zeth’s arms tighten around me. At first I think it’s a subconscious action carried out in sleep, but then I feel the press of his lips against my forehead and I know he’s awake.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’okay,” he tells me, his voice thick with sleep. “Come here.” He places a hand on my hip and inches me closer somehow, even though we are already skin on skin.
“You…okay?” I ask carefully. I don’t want to make a big deal out of him being here. But it is a big deal. It means a lot to me, and this, how he’s being with me, is definitely a big deal, too.
“I’m okay,” he whispers. There’s so much feeling behind those words. I know Zeth’s not just talking about the fact he’s here in this bed with me. He’s talking about Lacey. It’s going to take a long, long time for any of us to get over her death, but for right now Zeth’s letting me know he’s holding his shit together. That might not necessarily be a good thing. It might be better for him to break for a little while, but I can’t be the person to tell him that. He’ll break or he won’t break, and either way I’ll be here to help him. He moves slowly, sleepily, bringing his fingers up to touch my cheek. The action is soft. Gentle. Unexpected.
“Sloane…we’re free,” he whispers.
“Are we? Julio—”
“Julio’s been dealt with.”
“Michael said that. But how?”
“I don’t know the details yet. But Rebel said he was long gone.”
“As in dead?”
I can just about make out the outline of Zeth’s faint smile in the darkness. “I really don’t know. But long gone is good enough for me right now.” He continues to trace his fingers over my face, the pads of each fingertip tenderly exploring the lines of my nose, my cheekbones, my chin. “And you don’t need to worry about Lowell anymore, either. I took care of it,” he says.
“Took care of it? Like took care of her?”
“No.” Zeth chuckles quietly, the sound a low rumble in his chest. “I promise you, Sloane, there’ll be no more taking care of anyone. Not ever again. I made a deal with Lowell. I exchanged information in return for those get-out-of-jail-free cards she teased us with.”
I pull back so I can look him square in the eyes. Is he being serious? Though it’s tough to see much in the dark, I can make out the intense look in his eyes. The tight pull of his lips. He is. He’s being one hundred percent serious. “Oh my god. What happened?”
Zeth tells me about turning himself in to Lowell. About the seven hours of incessant questioning while Lowell tried to trip him up. About handing over information Rebel wanted Lowell to have in exchange for three sheets of A4 paper—one for me, one for Zeth, one for Michael—each clearing us of any criminal charges that may or may not have been brought against us.
“And so…that’s it. No more Charlie. No more Julio. No more Lowell.”
No more Lacey. I don’t say that, though. Instead, I ask, “No more nightmares?”
Zeth sighs, burying his nose into my neck. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“But none just now?”
“None just now,” he confirms.
“So…you want to go back to sleep?” I don’t want to go back to sleep. I want to do something else, and I think Zeth might just be on board. Even though I’m fully dressed, it hasn’t escaped me that he’s naked. And I can feel him growing harder, his erection digging into my stomach as he holds me close.
Zeth doesn’t say anything in response. He just looks down at me, those dark eyes considering me in a way I’m not entirely used to. I’m used to the dangerous spark in his eyes. It’s still there, but…I feel like the divide that was keeping us apart is now gone. It makes me catch my breath.
Zeth leans down and kisses me, and his mouth is gentle and soft. A low, bass sound rumbles in the back of his throat. His lips feel incredible on mine—demanding and slow, yet firm. He works his hands into my hair, and then brings them down to carefully cup my face. Everything about the moment is different. He’s not normally like this. Normally, I feel like I’m being swept along in an unstoppable tide, being pulled under and rolled by a force much greater than myself. Being with him has always reminded me of the only time I tried to surf when I was on vacation in California as a teenager. The instructor gave me some valuable advice that worked remarkably well: If you’re pulled under a wave, don’t fight it. You’ll never win. The ocean’s a hell of a lot stronger than you. It’s wild. All you have to do is hold your breath. Relax. Go with the wave, and eventually you’ll rise to the surface.
Zeth has always felt like that wave to me, wild and unstoppable, and that’s part of what’s thrilled me about being with him. But right now, it feels like we’re an equal force and we cancel each other out. As much as I love the freedom of letting go, of letting someone else have control over me, this is the most connected I’ve ever felt with him, and nothing can compete with that. Nothing in the world.
His hands work their way down to my neck, where his fingers trace the lines of my throat, across my collarbone, making me shiver. Slowly, carefully, Zeth reaches down and gathers my shirt, lifting it over my head. My pants and underwear go next, Zeth’s hands moving confidently and carefully, until I’m as naked as he is.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers. He’s told me to do that so many times before, but this time I’m not even remotely fazed by what he’ll do once I’ve shut out the world. I close my eyes, and Zeth rains kisses down onto my forehead, my eyelids, my temples, my cheeks, and down my neck. By the time he reaches my breasts, my head is spinning.
He rolls me onto my back, rolling with me so he’s hovering over me, and the kisses keep coming. With a demanding nudge from his knees, Zeth pushes my legs apart so he can settle himself between them. His cock is rigid and warm, so hard against me. His hands travel over me; he takes his time, mapping me out, kissing and licking and gently biting me all over, paying homage to my body.
I can’t keep quiet. I gasp each time I feel his teeth on me. Each time the heat of his tongue licks at me. Each time his fingers graze my sensitive skin.
“You wet for me, Sloane?” Zeth growls into the skin of my stomach. “If I go down on you, are you already going to be wet for me?”
A tremor ripples through me, making me shake. “Yes.” Because I am. There’s no way I’m not. I want him so
badly, and he knows it. In the past, this might have been where Zeth would have tied my wrists to the bed, or told me I couldn’t move, but now he says nothing. I don’t doubt the next time we’re together, his black bag will be back in full effect, but I need this right now. And so does he. He travels lower, dipping his head in between my legs, and I suck in a sharp gasp at the pressure of his tongue on my clit.
With hot, wet, deliciously slow, sweeping strokes, he works his tongue over me, sucking on my clit and licking at my pussy. I don’t fight myself, or him. I bury my fingers into his hair, grabbing two decent handfuls and pulling tightly. Zeth hisses, pausing a moment to look up at me. Our eyes lock down the length of my body and I can feel the tension and heat pouring off him. There’s a warning half hidden in his eyes, but it’s an amused one. I pull a little harder, and he smiles, mouth open, eyelids heavy.
“You pushing my buttons, angry girl?”
“Uhuh.” I feel winded by the way he’s looking at me—I feel the color rising in my cheeks from the blatant need I see on his face. He doesn’t dip back down right away; he stares at me, eyes fixed on my face, and he slowly slides his fingers inside me. Not one, but two at once. He scissors them open, and the tense, pulling sensation deep inside me lights me up.
“Fuck, Zeth. Oh my god.”
“You want me to keep going?” I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Zeth pushes his tongue between the slick folds of my pussy, taking his time as I shiver and buck beneath him. He’s relentless with his fingers, sliding them in and out of me with torturously slow movements that have me on the verge of tears. I lose control at some point, unashamed of the choked, needy sounds that come out of my mouth.
I begin to think Zeth is intent on making me suffer, that he will drag out my pleasure forever until I can’t take it anymore, but just as I’m about to start begging he stops what he’s doing. He moves up my body with a predatory, dark look on his face, eyes searching me all over, hungry and desperate. Is he going to fuck me now? I think he will, but then he climbs off me and lies down on the bed beside me.