by Hope Anika
“I’m sorry?”
She only shook her head, marveling. The CIA…she wouldn’t have guessed. Not in a million years. To become an agent for one of the highest branches of national security… Who the hell had she blackmailed into that?
A pertinent and terrifying question. Just who was The Kid’s father?
And who the hell was the man in black?
Cheyenne sat up straighter. Got poked by her baton. And realized her little stick wasn’t going to cut it. A Beretta might not even be enough.
Try a grenade launcher.
This was the other stinking shoe. Holy balls.
“Shit on a stick,” she said.
“Um…yes.” Mr. Jones laughed nervously. “Apparently. The Agency returned her to the states, where she was cremated, per her directive. Her remains are being held at the Rosemont Funeral Home over on 17th street. I assumed Rafferty would want them?”
He looked at her expectantly, but Cheyenne didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She was still turning it all over in her head, her heart pounding like a death knell in her chest.
The C-I-frigging-A.
It was insane. Ludicrous. A punch line.
Well played, you crazy bitch.
And here she sat, wholly embroiled, the patsy who’d followed her soft heart right down the rabbit hole. Just like Georgia knew she would.
Moron.
“Jesus,” she said. Because while she knew better than to put anything past Georgia, and while she’d fully understood—and expected—something like this, she hadn’t expected this. Something so alien and foreign that the implications reached far beyond any possible scope of her understanding.
Mind. Blown.
“I’m sorry this is such a shock,” Jones said. “I truly am. It doesn’t…it hasn’t changed your plans to accept the guardianship, has it?”
A moot point. She was all in. Tagged, but not bagged. Not yet.
“No,” she said. Even though—really—it might be doing The Kid a favor if she walked. To just let him get lost within the system. There was a good chance he would actually be safer if she left him the hell alone….
“Oh, good. That’s good. He needs you.”
Cheyenne narrowed her gaze. “Why?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why does he need me?”
Jones shifted in his cheap chair. “There have been…issues. Minor things, really.” An uneasy laugh. “Kid stuff.”
“Meaning?”
He sighed, as if he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. As if he expected his response to send her running. But she rarely ran from anything, as proven by the spectacular shitstorm she was currently trying to navigate.
“He has a record. Truancy, vandalism, that sort of thing. Nothing serious. It’s my understanding that he didn’t live with Georgia. I believe—”
“Where did he live?”
A shuffle of the papers. “He lived…with a woman named Letitia Jones. I believe she cared for him while Ms. Humboldt was away, working.”
No surprise there. Georgia had been as maternal as a concrete slab. If anything, the knowledge that she hadn’t taken care of her child almost relieved Cheyenne. The less influence she’d had, the better.
Of course, that wasn’t to say she would’ve left him with anyone good or decent. For Georgia, every decision had been shaped by one of two things: what was easy and/or what benefited her the most. If the two coincided, all the better. And if The Kid had a Juvie record, it was highly unlikely he’d had a stable, loving environment. That wasn’t strictly true, of course, especially if he’d inherited his mother’s mental dysfunction…
Balls. Well. She would just have to wait and see.
“Is that everything?” she asked Jones. Because her plan to squeeze him for details had evaporated, blown to smithereens by the CIA bomb he’d dropped. Every question she’d planned to ask had been muted by the sound of the explosion. She needed a dark, quiet place to digest. Time to think.
A goddamn drink.
Besides, the cabbie was waiting, which was undoubtedly going to cost an arm and a leg, but Cheyenne didn’t care. She’d wanted a get-away car—and now that she’d learned who Georgia had been, it seemed all the more prudent. Because the man in black had known who she was—overreacted, my ass—and probably why she was there. Hell, odds were, he was parked on the street below, just watching and waiting and planning.
Cheyenne wondered how good the cabbie would be at ditching a tail.
“Not quite everything…there is also this.” Mr. Jones shoved a fat, legal-sized yellow envelope toward her. “It contains her personal effects, keys, a copy of the will and trust, contact information for the renters in Paris, the bank account information, et cetera. I think you’ll find it all in order, but if not, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I’ve contacted Haven, and they understand you’ll be collecting Rafferty. They have a copy of the will, and the paperwork transferring him to your custody has been filed. I will get you a copy when the Court signs off.” Another nervous smile. A second, much smaller envelope was slid toward her. “Ms. Humboldt also asked that I give you this.”
Cheyenne stared at it. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
This was something she’d known was coming, too. Because no way would Georgia set this in motion without having the last say.
Shred it. Burn it. Bury it.
Nothing good would come of reading it.
But Jones was watching her, waiting, and she was no coward. So she pulled the envelope toward her, ripped it open and forced herself to read the small piece of parchment within.
I knew you would come. Soft and stupid and weak. You’ll always be her.
Good luck staying alive.
Fury flared. Fear turned to ash, obliterated by the wave of white-hot rage that whipped through her veins. It felt good. Cleansing. As if, with those final, hateful words, she’d been freed of any uncertainty that lingered. The words were a taunt meant to wound and weaken and return her to then, but Georgia had never truly understood her. What she wielded as a weapon Cheyenne used for fuel.
“Are you alright?”
Fan-fucking-tastic, thanks for asking.
“Is this it?” she asked calmly.
“Er…yes.”
She shoved the letter into the large yellow envelope and hefted it into the crook of her arm. Then she stood. She was acutely aware of the baton in her pocket and the irrational desire to smash everything in the room with it. Instead, she turned and headed for the door.
“Please call me if you need anything,” Mr. Jones called after her. “And…good luck.”
Cheyenne offered him a smile over her shoulder, a baring of teeth she knew was less than pleasant. “I’m not the one who’ll need it.”
Chapter Eight
As it turned out, the cabbie was from Lebanon—Beirut to be exact. And he had no trouble ditching a tail.
“Black Jeep,” he told her. “Pretty good—but not as good as me.”
Which she could only take at his word, seeing as how she spent most of the ride airborne, tossed wildly from side to side as he lived out his NASCAR dreams.
“That was very good,” he declared when he dropped her at the Motel 6 that sat less than two miles from Haven—a seedy, derelict joint he’d protested was too dangerous for a “nice girl” like her—but Cheyenne was comfortable with seedy and derelict.
“You need anything, you call me—Yassir.” He handed her a card, his tone stern. “I come right away.”
She rented one of the rooms that faced the street—better to see them coming—and accepted the discount coupon for a large pepperoni pizza from the clerk. Between her pack, the envelope Jones had given to her, and the weight of the day, she felt laden as she trudged toward her room. Exhausted and strung out and struggling to get beyond: Holy fucking shit. Now what?
Behind her the sound of the freeway vibrated; somewhere far off, a woman laughed. The clamor of the city serenaded her, a song she hadn’t
missed. It made her head hurt.
The wind lifted, but the heat and humidity were suffocating, and it did little to cool her. She’d shed her fleece and her hat, but it wasn’t enough; even her feet were sweating. Hot asphalt, exhaust and garbage scented the air. Memory threatened to stir, but she turned it aside, unable to face it on top of everything else. The last few hours had filled her plate to overflowing.
The blue paint on room 126’s door was chipped and faded from the southern sun. Cheyenne stopped for a moment and looked carefully around before she entered. Only a few cars dotted the lot, older vehicles, the kind that still had windows that rolled up and cassette players. Across the street, a liquor store advertised a sale on PBR and Marlboros. Two kids stood just down from the store, playing around on skateboards. No black Jeep. No towering, pissed off man with icy eyes.
“One friggin’ break,” she said. “Just one.”
She inserted her room key and sighed. Just one. But—
A large, heavy form slammed into her from behind. Tall, broad, as hard as granite, smashing her pack, shoving her into the door with brutal force. Hot breath touched her hair, her temple, her scar. Huge, scarred hands flattened themselves against the chipped paint. The scent of pine invaded her senses.
Man in black.
Her heart exploded. Adrenaline shot through her at the speed of light, and she reared back against him, but his weight and strength were pitiless, forcing her back against the door as though she weighed nothing. One of her hands was wrapped around the key, the other around the envelope; both were wedged against the door, trapped by the heavy pressure of his weight behind her. She couldn’t reach her baton.
“Unlock the door,” rasped that deep, gritty voice into her ear. “We need to talk.”
Terror and rage flooded her. She fought, snapping her head back in effort to head butt him. She pulled at the motel room key, struggling to pull it from the lock. If he got her inside—
“Go fuck yourself,” she snarled, bucking against him.
“Cheyenne,” he growled into her ear, which only made her angrier, fight harder, because it disturbed her on the deepest level to hear him say her name. “Open the goddamn door. Now.”
Her hand tightened on the key, but one of those giant hands covered hers and crushed her fingers, turning it in the lock. The door swung inward and sent them both stumbling across the threshold.
Cheyenne dropped the envelope, the coupon, her pack and went for her baton, but the man in black was too damn fast, and arms like steel bands wrapped her rib cage from behind, trapped her arms in front of her and lifted her in a crushing hold that left her feet dangling helplessly above the dingy carpet. He lifted her easily, a wall of hard, hot, intractable human flesh surrounding her. His strength was terrifying.
He kicked the door shut behind them and carried her across the room, while she struggled and swore and drove her booted heels into his shins. Fists clenched, she bucked and squirmed and rammed her head back into the brick wall of his chest. It was like fighting the tide. He pushed her down, face first onto the bed and followed, smothering her with his weight until she was gasping for breath, and the muscle and sinew that roped him pressed against her like a second skin. Their combined weight made the worn bed springs groan in protest. His breath was at her cheek; his arms held her immobile, trapped, she couldn’t move, couldn’t reach her baton, couldn’t fight, and for a moment, hysteria almost won.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But it was almost impossible. His weight was overwhelming. Heavy legs pushed into the backs of her thighs; his hips shoved her into the bedding. He was twice as big and ten times as strong. Fear like none she’d ever known threatened to undo her.
Blood and terror and death.
“Enough?” he grated into her ear.
“Get off,” she demanded hoarsely, her throat burning with tears she refused to shed.
“We need to talk. Easy or hard is up to you.”
A hint of the west shaped his words, a faint drawl that enraged her. It was a familiar sound, that drawl, reminding her of the most decent human being she’d ever known. It was wrong that they shared it. So wrong. “Bite me.”
The arms around her tightened until her bones ached. Warm, moist breath washed over her scar, and every hair on her body stood up in awareness. “Don’t temp me.”
Rage bubbled in her throat, and she snarled like a trapped animal. She fought, even knowing it was a waste of precious strength, of energy, that nothing she could do would dislodge him. He only waited, his hold unbending, his heart slamming against the wall of her back like a hammer. Rough stubble brushed her scar, a place no one had ever touched, causing a riot of hate and heat to expand in her chest.
“Can’t breathe!” she hissed. “Can’t talk if I’m dead!”
His mouth whispered across her cheek, and a sudden, shocking streak of white fire lit through her and stole her breath. The sensation against her marred skin was stunning, too intimate, a privilege she’d never allowed anyone. That he simply took it—and that she felt it so deeply—enraged her.
“No screaming. And no punching.” Sharp teeth nipped at her ear, making her start violently. “That hurt like hell.”
“Good. You fucker.”
His mouth twitched. Cheyenne felt it against her temple and wanted to rip his heart out. “Easy, now. I might start thinking you don’t like me.”
“Going to kill you.”
“Such bloodlust.”
A muffled roar was her only response.
He pressed his forehead to her temple, hard; their breaths mingled, washing across her skin. “Promise me you’ll calm down, and I’ll let you go.”
Everything in her rebelled. “No negotiating with terrorists,” she growled.
“Well. I guess we’ll have to find something else to do while you rethink that.” His hips pressed against her, pushing her down with a crude thrust, an implied threat that made her see red.
“Fucking kill you! Strip your flesh, crush your bones, feed you to fucking pigs!” She was yelling, totally losing her shit. But there was no stopping it. The threat he was making was too real. Too close to—
“Whoa, baby, easy. Take it easy.” His voice changed, gentled—liar!—and he eased the pressure of his hold, lifting his weight just enough to allow her to take a deep, shuddering breath. “Just breathe.”
She trembled violently, her teeth chattering, her blood a deafening roar in her head. “Get off.”
“Promise, Cheyenne. Because I can stay here all night. Believe me.”
She did. “Promise,” she spat.
“Liar. You’re gonna swing at me as soon as I get off you.”
She said nothing. Damn right she was going to swing. But she wouldn’t punish her fists with his hard head—that’s what the baton was for.
“We can do it this way, too.” Another tender press of his mouth against her cheek. A caress—there was no mistaking it for anything else. “Works for me.”
“Fucker,” she said again. “Lackey, flunky, stupid fucking pawn! Did she send you? Are you the cherry on top? The sequel? Part two of that stinking, shitty note? Go to hell, you cock—”
Those sharp teeth nipped at the corner of her mouth, and her words died a sudden, violent death.
“Shut up,” he snarled, and in his voice she heard the same fury she’d seen in his eyes. His mouth brushed hers as he spoke, and her heart threatened to burst from her chest. “Just shut the fuck up.”
Not an order she would have—ordinarily—obeyed. But something was happening inside her—something treacherous and unexpected and powerful—something she didn’t recognize, didn’t trust, didn’t understand. Didn’t want. And he was too still against her. When someone as big and dangerous as he was went that quiet and motionless, an explosion was sure to follow.
So she shut the fuck up.
“You think I’m hers?” he gritted, his tone a sharp juxtaposition against the tender press of his mouth. The difference was jarring. Beca
use what she heard, and what she felt, were two different things. That they could coexist…was terrifying.
“She liked pretty,” Cheyenne told him, hating the heat that lashed through her when her mouth touched his. “And bullies.”
A growl rumbled through him and vibrated against her back. “Not hers. Not ever.”
“If you say so.”
His hold tightened, threatened to break her in two. “Don’t…push.”
The words were broken, disjointed, and a violent tremor moved through him. Paradoxically, it both calmed and scared the shit out of her. Because he was clearly on the edge—an edge Georgia had been uniquely proficient at pushing people toward, herself included.
“How did you know?” His voice was rough, like gravel. “I haven’t even said her name.”
“I recognize her stench when I smell it.” Cheyenne fought to breathe. “Fucking sulfur.”
Another rumble.
“Crushing me,” she hissed. “Passing out now.”
His arms loosened, and she gulped in a deep, painful breath.
“You were her friend,” he said.
“Once. No more.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t give a shit what you believe.” Cheyenne struggled against him, enraged all over again. “Get off me, you—”
“Don’t.” His arms tightened in warning. His lips whispered against hers. “No more names.”
Her teeth ground together. “Pretty please with sugar on top?”
“That’s better.”
She growled. “What the hell do you want from me?”
“The truth.”
“About what?”
“Why are you here?”
She didn’t want to answer. It was none of his damn business, why she was here. And who was he to ask? But he wasn’t moving—and he wasn’t going to—and Superman didn’t exist, so she was SOL. She couldn’t win this altercation. Not physically.
“The kid,” she muttered.
“Of your enemy?”
“I prefer nemesis.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Don’t fuck with me.” Another tremor. “Just tell me.”
“I can’t. I don’t know why. Just…that I couldn’t leave him.”