Game of Shadows

by Amanda K. Byrne

  I barely have enough time to crawl out and flick the safety off before the next bullet pierces the side of the car. Nick’s crouched next to the front tire, and he jumps up and fires a couple rounds at the next pause in the shooting.

  “Two of them,” he says. “Behind their car.”

  The world slows, sound coming from the end of a tunnel. My hand curls around the grip in a perfect fit, as though this gun is as familiar as my own. It’s me or them, and I’m not the one leaving in a body bag today. Easy. Steady. In this moment, I am perfect.

  Turner’s training clicks into place, and I scan the nearby cars for cover. We’ll have to get behind the shooters if we’re going to get out of here alive. I scoot closer to Nick. “Cover for me? I’m going to see if I can come up from behind.”

  He springs up and fires again. I duck walk to the next car in the ensuing racket, pausing when the shooting stops. The wall behind us is a blessing and a curse. No one can sneak up on us, but it blocks us in, too. Hunched over, trusting Nick can distract them long enough not to notice my footsteps, I run between the line of cars and the wall until I’m far enough away they shouldn’t see me crossing into the open.

  The wound on my leg protests as I crouch next to the front bumper of a truck, waiting for the next round of gunshots to cover me. I peek around the car. They’re about fifty yards away. Too far for me to get off an accurate shot.

  More gunfire, and I run across the open space to the next row of cars, not stopping until I’m between a dark sedan and a bright red two-door. The noise doesn’t last long enough to cover my footsteps, and they’re unnaturally loud in the cavernous building.

  I shift my grip on the gun and draw in a breath, let it out, count my heartbeats as I wait. One second. Two. Heavy footfalls approach, slow, slow, each one ringing in my ears. I haven’t fired yet. I shift my stance as quietly as I can.

  It’s like watching a movie advance frame by frame. He’s tall. Dark hair. Hard jaw. The gun looks tiny in his hands. Mouth a bit too wide for his face, narrowed eyes. He’s not expecting me. He’s not expecting the bullet that lodges itself in his eye.

  The shot echoes long after he’s on the ground. My hand is numb. I’m numb. Blood pools and spreads under his head, deep, deep red on the dirty garage floor.

  More footsteps running toward me, and I bring the gun up to fire again, squeezing the trigger on instinct. It’s only by sheer luck the shot misses Nick, and he stumbles to a halt. I drop my hand and take a step forward. Another. Then another. “Police will be here soon.”

  He nods. “I’ll get your bag. We’ll take their car. You injured?” His gaze skims over my body.

  “They didn’t hit me. You?” Blood seeps through his shirt, high on his bicep. We have matching wounds. Nice. I tug the fabric up and inspect the graze. It’s not as long or as deep as mine. “You won’t need stitches.” I pull his sleeve into place and move past him, heading for his car. We have to wipe it for prints and get out of the garage before the cops show up.

  Sirens wail in the distance, and I sprint for the SUV, Nick on my heels.

  Chapter 6

  “Cass?”

  “Mmm?” I glance over at Nick. Something about his expression, carefully and totally blank, makes me wonder if I’ve missed something.

  He gestures to the door. “You want to get out of the car?”

  I guess I did miss something. The entire drive. We’re on a mostly empty street, shaded by tall buildings on either side, a few cars parked along the curb. A faint hum of traffic vibrates through the car. Downtown. I think we’re in the business district. I unclip my seatbelt and get out, retrieving my bag from the back seat. “What time is it?”

  “Almost three.”

  I called my mother just before noon. Assuming the shootout lasted only a few minutes, we’ve been driving around for over two hours, and I haven’t spoken a word. The numb feeling’s settled in, familiar and calming, distancing me from the violence. “Which way?”

  He points left, and I heft my bag onto my shoulder and start walking, the pain in my ankle a dull ache. After a few steps, he falls in beside me. Traffic noise increases the farther we get from the SUV, and we turn onto Grand. “Are we going any place in particular, or no place special?”

  “Safe house.” He stares down the street, peering toward the next intersection. “Come on.”

  “If the hit was ordered by your own family, wouldn’t your safe houses be compromised?”

  He reaches out and takes the bag from me. “Not this one.”

  And that’s all the answer I get. He hails us a cab at the corner of Grand and Seventh and gives the driver an address out near Manhattan Beach.

  Nick’s “safe house” is a condo in a multi-story complex about five blocks from the beach. The complex is new and unremarkable, the outside done in shades of tan and white. Rather than take the elevator, we hike the stairs to the third floor, and he lets us in to a unit somewhere in the middle of the building, facing away from the ocean.

  The place is furnished. Barely. There’s a couch covered in a dark gray fabric and a coffee table that looks like an IKEA cast-off in front of it. A small flat screen is on a stand in the corner. The blinds are drawn, leaving the interior dim. A set of French doors open on to a balcony. I rattle the handle. Balconies compromise safety. I thought everyone knew that.

  “Bedroom’s through there.” He jerks his head to the far side of the living room.

  The short hallway is dark with two doors on one side. I open the one on the far end, farthest from the balcony. Inside is a small bedroom. Does that mean the bathroom is elsewhere? Because the other door has to lead to another bedroom. I study the furnishings, such as they are. The queen size mattress is bare and still has the tags on it. “Are there blankets?”

  “Should be some in the bathroom closet.” He tosses my bag on the floor and leans on the doorjamb, hands in his pockets.

  The bathroom is one of those pass-through ones with doors on both ends. I find the closet he’s talking about and grab a set of sheets and a couple of pillows. He hasn’t moved as I make my way over to the bed and begin making it up. “Is there food, or do we need to go get some?” The top sheet doesn’t want to center. I tug it this way and that, the creased line stubbornly remaining a few inches off.

  Heat and cinnamon invade my senses, the long, hard line of Nick’s body flush against my back. “Cassidy.” A shiver tiptoes down my spine at the way he says my name, my full name, lush and decadent, cracking the ice encasing my mind. He glides his hands along my forearms and closes his hands around mine, pulling them away from the sheet.

  I’m dreaming because there’s no way this is happening, not after the way he looked at me today, after he blew me off so many times already. But it is, and his hands shift to my hips, following their curves, urging me around. He presses his hands into the small of my back. One hand comes up and wraps around my ponytail, tipping my head back, his mouth inches from mine.

  The softness of the kiss wakens my mind from its slumber, bringing me out of the cold. This isn’t supposed to be how it happens. He’s supposed to take, demand my surrender, weaken my knees with the fierce possessiveness of it all.

  His lips are a featherweight on mine. Sweet, barely there, warm enough to turn my body liquid and flow against his own, let him mold me however he wants. It’s wrong, this way, but it might be the only way I’ll get to touch him. It might be the only way he’ll touch me.

  I don’t care. I need this sweet warmth, this flickering desire, need to feel it curling and sending out tendrils to wrap around any part it can touch. I cup the back of his neck, then slide and fist my fingers into his hair, the strands silky soft on my skin. Amazing. Amazing and fantastic and impossible, this kiss, his tongue seeking entry, stroking and teasing and demanding more.

  Then he eases back into the softness and the tender brush of lips that threatens to leave me in pieces.

  When the words come, it’s like a t
idal wave breaking over me.

  “Good to know one thing hasn’t changed,” he whispers, his lips against my mouth. “Not sure I like cold, calm Cass.”

  Cold? He thought I was cold before? I’m freezing now. I’m ice. I sidestep him and pick up a pillowcase, tucking a pillow under my chin. “Was that an experiment? Did you think I’d freak out at the sight of a dead body?” I toss the pillow onto the bed. “I don’t remember agreeing to play your little game. I do kill people for a living, remember?”

  He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, and I wish I was the one doing that. “Fuckin’ A. You’re so damn calm, like it’s nothing. Okay? You tell me you kill people. Seeing you do it is something entirely different.”

  His frustration is kind of adorable. It doesn’t change the fact he took advantage of my attraction to him and kissed me solely to get a reaction. The pain scatters the ice, and I clutch the shards closer. I grab the other pillow and wrestle it into the case. “Now you know. Curiosity satisfied.” Leave. Dear God, leave before I do something stupid and girly. Like cry.

  I will not cry in front of him.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, grateful for the distraction. I get a glimpse of the screen as I thumb off the lock to answer. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

  I throw the other pillow on the bed and sit on the edge, my back to Nick. It’s a really broad hint, and I hope he takes it. “Not so good. Can we have lunch tomorrow?”

  Nick makes a grab for the phone, and I twist away, scrambling across the bed and dropping to the floor on the other side. “Sure. I’ve got a deposition but should be done by around one.”

  “That’ll work.” I crawl under the bed to get away from him.

  “Cass? What are you doing?”

  Flat on my belly, I kick out as he grabs my ankle. “Trying to keep my phone from being stolen. Do you want me to come in, or meet you some place?”

  “Come in. Deposition might run long.” I tell her I love her and I’ll see her tomorrow, then use my elbows to creep along to the other side. Dust clings to my shirt as I crawl out, phone in hand.

  He’s waiting for me at the foot of the bed, and I brush wayward strands of hair out of my face, then swipe at the dust bunnies on my shirt. “Personal space. Stop invading it.” I slip the phone into my back pocket and back into the wall.

  “Stop making stupid mistakes, and I’ll consider it. You’re not going anywhere. And give me the phone.”

  “The GPS is disabled.” I disable it whenever I get a new phone. “It’s just lunch.”

  He plants his feet on either side of mine, trapping me with his body. Not fair. Not fair at all. “Give. Me. The. Phone.”

  “No.”

  Wait for it. He won’t be able to resist. He can’t. It’s so easy. So tempting for him to just slide his hand in there, palm the phone. Palm my ass. His hand is at my hip, almost to its destination, and I ram my elbow into his stomach. He stumbles backward, and I duck around him, heading for the door. “Learn the word ‘no,’ Nick. Because when I say it, I mean it.” I’m leaving this place, first chance I get.

  The kitchen matches the rest of the condo. Barely furnished. A length of counter closes the space off from the living room, forming a U and connecting to another counter broken up by the stove. I open cupboards at random and find plates and a couple of pots, along with a drawer full of silverware and other kitchen utensils. There’s no food. Great. I haven’t eaten since the toast this morning, and my stomach’s growling like an angry tiger.

  “Cassidy.”

  I open the fridge again, unwilling to look at him. “Is there a grocery store nearby? If we’re going to be stuck here for a few days, cooking would be easier.” I glance over my shoulder. “Or are we not allowed outside at all?”

  “Quit being a brat.”

  I shut the fridge and slump against it, tired of fighting. Tired of fighting my attraction to him. “We need some rules. Or rule. A single rule.” His face is blank, eyes dark and watchful. “You don’t touch me. Simple, right? You don’t touch me unless there’s no ulterior motive behind it. You should be able to remember that. I think you’re hot. You know it. You use it against me and I will hurt you. Someone paid me to kill you. Piss me off enough, and I’ll do it for free.”

  “You wouldn’t.” His declaration is quiet and sure. “All you get is a picture and a schedule, right? Don’t follow the news. You don’t know anything about your hits because it humanizes them. Once they’re people to you, you can’t bring yourself to pull the trigger.”

  His assessment is frighteningly accurate. Turner always warned against allowing emotion to influence your kills. His advice flies right out of my brain the longer I stare at Nick. I arch a brow. “Do you really want to try me?”

  He smirks.

  My fingers twitch, aching to close around one of the kitchen knives. Calm. I need to calm down, wait for the rage to pass. Because as infuriating as Nick is, he’s also right. If he dies, it won’t be by my hand.

  “You win,” I mutter. “Food?”

  The smirk is gone. “Grocery store about three blocks up.”

  I nod and head for the door.

  “Wait.”

  I pause, hand on the doorknob, eyes trained on the door. “I’ll be fine by myself.” I’m out in the hall and the door’s shut before he can respond. I take the stairs to the lobby and walk outside, blinking into the bright sunshine.

  The store is where he says it is, and I wander the aisles, filling the cart with more food than I can carry, but it gives me time to think. I have two options: leave Nick or stay and help him.

  The problem with leaving is I have nowhere to go. I can’t go back to my apartment; he’ll just find me there. I can’t stay with my parents. I don’t have a Charlie to lean on, like Denise, and I don’t want to run through my savings on a motel, even a rent-by-the-hour one. Plus, ew.

  Staying brings up a whole different set of problems, starting and ending with Nick. Nick and his ridiculous hotness, Nick and his aggravating way of doing things, Nick and the severe lack of information.

  He couldn’t have kissed me like that if he didn’t feel something too. Right? All sweet and slow and coaxing.

  Of course he could. He said so himself—he did it to prove a point.

  I pick up a six-pack of beer on the way to the check out and watch with dismay as the checker loads bag after bag. It’s three blocks. I can make it.

  My arms are screaming in protest, and the pain in my ankle’s increased by the time I reach the front door to the complex. I ring the buzzer for Nick’s unit, and he lets me in.

  Produce spills out of one of the bags as I dump them on the floor of the kitchen. I pull a beer out and pop the cap off using the edge of the counter as he empties the grocery bags.

  “There’s a bottle opener, you know,” he says wryly.

  “Shut up. And if you drink one of my beers, I’m sending you out for another six-pack.” It won’t get me oblivion-wasted, but drunk sounds good right about now.

  I put the food away while I finish the first beer and crack open a second as I cook dinner. Nick has made himself absent from the kitchen. I take a plate of chicken and rice out into the living room and unlock the balcony doors.

  There’s no patio furniture, so I grab two of the wooden bar stools and set them outside before putting my plate and beer on one and climbing up on the other. I swallow my whimper as I prop my foot up on the bottom rung of the stool. I’ll have to ice it tonight. The neighborhood is quiet except for the occasional shout from a kid or a barking dog. Cool evening air sneaks under my shirt. I gulp the rest of my beer. I’ll give this much to the balcony—it’s giving me space to think.

  “Thanks for making dinner.” Nick appears in the doorway and hands me another beer. I take it and return my gaze to the darkening street. The silence between us grows and stretches tight, snapping like a rubber band when he breaks it. “I’ll come wit
h you tomorrow.”

  I shake my head and drain half the bottle. “I’d rather you didn’t. You don’t need to see all my dirty laundry.”

  He says nothing, reaches out and tugs the end of my ponytail, fingers playing with the strands. I stare at him until he drops his hand and tucks it into his pocket. “He never should have trained you.”

  I polish off the rest of the beer and stand. He doesn’t move from the doorway, so I have to edge around him to get another. “He didn’t force me to do it.” The beer’s taking hold. My head’s a little woozy, and I stumble a little as I pass the coffee table. By the end of the six-pack, I should be pleasantly goofy. I pull my fourth bottle from the fridge and pop the cap after missing the first time.

  “How did he get you to do it, then?” He’s back inside, blocking the way out to the balcony. No matter. Those places are dangerous, anyway.

  “I asked.” And I lift the bottle to my lips and drink.

  Chapter 7

  This is interesting.

  I’ve managed to shock Dominic Kosta. Full-stop surprise on his face, lips parted, eyes unblinking, brow creased. Someone’s hit pause, his body locking up, thoughts frozen. “You asked him to train you.” A muscle jumps and twitches in his neck.

  I lift my beer in a toast. “Yup. Family business. You’re familiar with those, right? Have to carry on the tradition. He was trained by his dad, who was trained by his dad, and his dad was some kind of goon.” Beer slops against the sides of the bottle as I wave it around. “I just wasn’t quite up to dear old dad’s standards.”

  I am not nearly drunk enough for heart-wrenching confessions. “Tell me abutt yer famly.” I take another long pull from the bottle.

  He slouches onto the couch, legs kicked out in an elegant sprawl. “Like I said, we own most of the city. Biggest chunk of the legit side is technology, though. We own the company your dad works for.” His smile is humorless, more a spreading of lips than an actual happy expression.