Wicked Torture

by J. Kenner

  I swallow, and pray that he thinks my nervousness is because of Cam.

  His eyes are locked on mine, and I can see the warning in them. The silent admonishment to remain still, as if we were nothing more than shadows ourselves.

  But there's heat there, too. I know him too well not to recognize the tension behind his eyes, and to understand what it means. Memories of long nights and intimate touches. Of soft words and broken promises.

  I release a shuddering sigh, a mixture of both longing and regret.

  "There's no one out here," the girl says. "And I saw her go out the front, anyway."

  "Weird." I can imagine Cam's frown. I can't see his face, but from the shadows, I can see him emerge from behind the open door. His posture is stiff. Worried. There's no reason to be worried, of course, but we've always been close. Our grandmother used to say that except for the ten years between us--and the fact that we're half-siblings--we were practically twins. So his concern doesn't surprise me at all, and I fear that he's going to move further down the alley, checking out the nooks and crannies just to be on the safe side.

  "Cam?" I hear Tyree's low, booming voice.

  "He's here!" the girl calls, then adds in a lower voice. "Go back in. If it's bugging you so much I'll take a quick look around."

  They both step behind the open door and out of my line of sight. There's a low murmur of conversation that I can't hear, and then the door shuts. Cam is gone, but I can see the outline of the girl as she steps away from the door and into the alley.

  She turns toward us, and Noah steps forward, the hand at my mouth moving to my hip as he steers me even further back until I feel my body pressed against the cool brick of the building behind me.

  "Quiet," he whispers as her heels click on the concrete.

  I raise a brow, annoyed. I hardly need reminding.

  But then he steps closer, and I gasp audibly. He catches me with a sharp glance, and I point up, indicating his hair.

  For a moment, he frowns, apparently confused. Then he looks up, and notices what I've just realized--that as we'd moved further into this alcove, we'd passed through a sliver of light from a nearby fixture. The beam has hit Noah's hair, making it spark and shine.

  He takes one more step toward me, so that we are both in this tiny, shadowed space. Now, instead of merely his finger on my lips or his hands on my shoulders, his entire body is flush against mine, one hand on the wall behind me for balance. I want to tell him to lean back, but we both know that would put him in the light. And all my plea would do is tell him that his proximity is making me nervous. Which he probably already knows.

  Nervous and, damn me, far too aware of every touch. Every breath.

  My palm is flat against his chest, though I don't remember lifting it. I can feel the tempo of his heart, and am relieved to find that it's galloping, just like my own. My eyes are aligned with his neck, and even in the dark I can see the curve of it rising to a strong jaw that my lips have traced so many times. It's been years, but I can still imagine the feel of his skin against my mouth, the rough sensuality of his beard stubble against my lips, my cheeks.

  I close my eyes, trying to ward off the memories, then open them again when I hear the woman's footsteps draw near.

  Noah leans in, his hips pressing against my lower abs as he uses his entire body to shield me. If the girl sees anything, it will look like a couple grabbing some alone time in a dark corner. Either that, or a drunken man all by himself. I have no clue if I'm even visible at all.

  I hold my breath, hyperaware of the sound of her passing, and even more aware of the feel of Noah's body against mine. I tilt my head up, and his face is right there, his lips parted, the scent of whiskey on his breath. His eyes are on mine, and time melts away.

  I don't know how long we stand like that, breathing each other's air, seeing each other's thoughts. It seems no longer than an instant; it seems like forever.

  Neither of us moves, and after a moment, I hear the clink of the door shutting as the girl goes back inside. But still, we stay frozen, as if we both have one foot in the past, and if we so much as blink, the spell will be broken.

  Then his head tilts. It's barely even the hint of a movement, but it's enough. I straighten, knowing I need to push past him. But before I can move, his mouth closes over mine.

  I freeze. I'm flat against the wall, completely trapped. Some small part of me wants to push him back--my hand is already on his chest. It would be so easy to do. But I can't--I won't. And soon that tiny seed of rationality is swallowed up by need and want and greed.

  It's as if I've been starving, and Noah is the finest chocolate, the most tempting liquor. I want to savor him, but I can't resist. I clutch him tight, matching his heat, his need. His mouth is hard and demanding against mine, as if he's trying to consume me, to draw me in, to claim me completely. And so help me, I want that. In this moment, I don't care about the past or my anger or my hurt. All I want is to recapture what we had. All I want is the man I once knew and that touch, that passion, so all-consuming. So combustible.

  So goddamn dangerous.

  The thought hits me hard, and I push away from him, gasping with shock, my skin hot from a mixture of lust and self-loathing. I'd been drawn into the past, all right. A past when things were good. When I'd let myself believe we had a future.

  But that wasn't how the story ended, and I shouldn't have let myself block out reality any more than I should have let him kiss me. Because in the real past, he left me.

  In the real past, he walked away so that he could marry someone else.

  "Kiki, I'm sorry. I--"

  "Just go," I snap, as fresh tears prick my eyes. "Just go back to your wife."

  He flinches, and I expect him to say something. To make some excuse.

  But he doesn't. He just backs away from me, and as he passes under the light, I can see his expression. Hurt. Confusion. And something I can't quite identify.

  He's in the middle of the alley when he speaks again, his face lost in the shadows. "I really am sorry," he says as he starts to walk away. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

  But whether he means the kiss or seeing me again or our entire history, I really don't know.

  4

  "This is nice," Kiki murmured, as she leaned back against Noah's chest.

  His chin rested on her head, his arms wrapped around her waist. Her own arms were crossed as she held on to him, her thumbs gently brushing his skin, the touch too casual to be any sort of intentional caress--and all the more intimate because of that easy familiarity.

  They were standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the south wall of his Austin condo. Fifteen stories below, the river reflected the pink and purple of the sun that was setting in the west, as if the river was flowing from that melting ball of fire.

  "It's beautiful."

  "Not as beautiful as you."

  She laughed, then met his eyes in the reflection, hers lit with amusement. "That sounds suspiciously like a pick-up line."

  "Can it be a line if it's true?"

  She shrugged, her attention going back to the river as she sighed with pleasure, her hands tightening on his arms. When she spoke, her voice was soft, and she didn't meet his eyes. "I think the real question is, can it be a line if there's no reason for a pick-up?" She lifted her chin, and when their eyes met in the window this time, he saw a hint of defiance. "After all, you already have me. Don't you?"

  Yes. He wanted to shout the word, but he couldn't quite force it out past the joy that swelled his chest and filled his heart. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her hair and pulled her tighter against him.

  "Why didn't you surf today?"

  For a moment he was confused. Surfing had been almost as much of an obsession as gaming when he was in his early twenties, but he hadn't surfed since. He shook his head, his mind oddly muddled. And for a moment--only a flash, really--he wasn't looking at the river, but instead at the Pacific, wide and blue and infinite.


  He blinked, and the river returned.

  "I--I wanted to spend the day with you, of course." He hoped he sounded casual. He felt confused.

  "Oh?" There was a tease in her voice. "Why's that?"

  He laughed as he spun her in his arms, then found her smiling at him. Her brown eyes seemed to draw him in, and he had to fight the urge to press kisses on each of the freckles that dotted her cheeks. "Happy anniversary, sweetheart. I hope you had a wonderful day."

  "You know I did," she said, her eyes so full of love he wanted to drown in them.

  "I love you so much." His heart ached with the words. He stroked her soft hair, then wound a teak-colored strand around his finger, relishing the connection.

  She cupped his cheek. "Do you think I don't know that? I see it every time you look at me. Every time you touch me."

  Small beads of sweat rose at his hairline, and he didn't understand why. But he suddenly felt nervous. Edgy. And he had to swallow to get out the words. "You shouldn't," he whispered, wishing he didn't have to say it. Not understanding why he believed it.

  "Shouldn't?" Her brow creased as she shook her head in confusion. "Shouldn't love you?"

  He took her hands. He had to make her understand. "All of this," he said emphatically. "None of this matters."

  A laugh bubbled out of her, and he saw relief in her eyes. "Of course it doesn't, darling. The only thing that matters is us."

  "No." His chest was tight with frustration. Why wasn't she listening? Why couldn't she see?

  "Noah?"

  "You don't understand." In one quick, horrible movement, he thrust his hands out hard against her chest. He had to do it. How else could he convince her?

  Her eyes went wide as she stumbled backward. The glass shattered, and she plummeted out into the void, down and down and down.

  He watched her fall, his entire body numb. "You understand now," he whispered. "In the end, I'd only hurt you, too."

  His own gasp of terror woke Noah, and he sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard, his body as cold as ice.

  It was just a dream. He knew that. And he reminded himself of that simple fact again and again as he tried to get back to sleep.

  He never managed. Instead, he tossed and turned from three in the morning until five forty-five when the blare of his alarm clock finally gave him permission to quit trying.

  Still shaking, he untangled himself from the bed sheets and stumbled into the shower, hoping that the hot water would wash away the remnants of the dream.

  It didn't.

  On the contrary, the dream infected Noah's entire morning. Over and over, his mind replayed the gut-wrenching image of Kiki endlessly falling, her arms outstretched as she moved inexorably away from him and closer to her horrible, painful fate.

  Just a dream. Yes. Right.

  But knowing didn't make it any less disturbing, especially since he was both intelligent enough and self-aware enough to understand the origin of the dream. He'd seen Kiki. He'd held her. Touched her.

  Most of all, he'd wanted her--with want being one of the century's most significant understatements--and his subconscious was very firmly reminding him that any path that led to Kiki was a path he had no business following.

  But oh, how he wanted to.

  Even now as he tried and failed to shave without nicking himself, all he could think of was the way she'd felt in his arms. The firmness of her slim body juxtaposed against the softness of her breasts as he held her close, both of them fearing they'd be discovered.

  He recalled the scent of rosemary in her hair and the taste of vanilla on her lips. The way his pulse had tripped nervously when he'd closed his mouth over hers, and then the way relief had flooded through him when she responded with equal ardor. At least before the chill that had settled over them both when she'd realized what they were doing.

  Hell, even the sting of her hand against his cheek when he'd first encountered her in the alley was a touch to be savored.

  She'd always had a quick temper. But like an alchemist's scale, it had been balanced by deep emotion and strong passion. Kiki was a woman who poured her heart into everything, and he knew damn well how much he'd hurt her.

  He wanted to make it up to her--but at the same time, he knew that he needed to stay away. He wanted her--dear God, he wanted her--but she had a new life now. One he wasn't part of.

  The thought shouldn't bother him, but he couldn't deny that it did.

  He'd tasted the past last night--and it had made him crave a future.

  But there was just no way.

  Oh, sure, he could find her easily enough. Tyree must have her contact information. Or Cam. And even if they wouldn't tell him, Noah wasn't without resources. For years, he'd run tech for a highly effective, covert security operation--which was polite code for vigilante organization--and he still had connections and favors to call in.

  If he wanted, he could have her address, phone, driving record, and current credit score by the time he walked into his office. And part of him did want. Hell, he wanted so badly it was like a physical ache.

  But he couldn't do it.

  Couldn't track her down. Couldn't go to her. Couldn't try to start over.

  He wasn't the man she used to know. The Noah she'd fallen in love with had lived in a world of video games and fantasy. A world where he trusted his intellect and creativity to fashion a happy ending both in the games he designed and the life he lived. Kiki had seen only the very beginning of his bitter realization that the world didn't work that way. The world didn't care if you were smart or noble or heroic. The world took what it wanted, and left you to claw your way back from the pain.

  The Noah she'd loved had been an optimist.

  But the man she'd met last night in an alley had clearer vision. He saw that old Noah for the fool he'd been.

  Hell, she didn't even know that Darla and his little girl were dead. That he was alone, and had been for years.

  For that matter, he wasn't sure Kiki even knew that he'd had a daughter, only that Darla had been pregnant. Kiki had left Los Angeles before the wedding, and as far as Noah knew, she'd never looked back. She had a new life now, and he wasn't part of it.

  He pictured that band leader--Ares?--and wondered if she was seeing him. Were they dating? Married? Did they spend hours bent over the piano, roughing out a song and laughing about ridiculous rhymes?

  The thought tasted bitter, and the image of her laughing like that with someone else hurt him more than it should after all these years.

  Damn him.

  He was being an ass. Much better to let the past stay in the past. To simply hold on tight to his memories. Their time in Los Angeles. Those few stolen moments of bliss last night . . .

  It wasn't enough--it wasn't nearly enough--but he owed her more than the pain of disrupting her life. And God knew, he was damaged goods. In the end, he'd just end up hurting her. Again.

  Hadn't his subconscious told him as much in the dream?

  As for bumping into her around town . . .

  Well, Austin was a big place, so the odds were slim. And from now on, he'd pay attention to what live music acts were happening at his favorite venues. Not so that he'd know where to go, but so that he'd know where to avoid.

  As he finished dressing, he forced himself to think of the day ahead. And by the time he'd walked the four blocks to his office, he'd mostly succeeded in shaking off the dream and the lingering thoughts of Kiki. Today's schedule was too jam-packed--and too important--to let in anything not related to work, and by the time he reached his office and handed his assistant the latte he'd bought for her, his mind was fully on the morning's agenda.

  "Thanks," Carina said, taking the drink with a smile that lit up her elfin face.

  He'd hired Carina one week after he'd come to Austin with the purpose of turning this floundering tech company into a top competitor in the field of corporate security technology. He'd asked Human Resources to send him a floater to help him get organized, and Carin
a had swooped in like a combination guardian angel and pit bull, tirelessly organizing him even while ferociously guarding his time by keeping away anyone he didn't truly need to see. After two days, he'd called HR back and told them that she was on his desk permanently.

  The coffee ritual started because they were both trying to cut down. The deal was that whenever either of them bought coffee or made a cup in the break room, they had to bring the other one as well. On the whole it was working remarkably well--not only was he paying more attention to how much coffee he drank, but he'd also scored a damn good assistant.

  "And you might want to take the toilet paper off before you see Mr. Stark." Her big brown eyes sparkled mischievously.

  He rubbed his jaw, knocking off the bit of tissue he'd missed earlier. He'd been so distracted by thoughts of Kiki while shaving that he probably looked like the survivor of a gang fight. Then the full impact of her words hit him. "Damien's here?"

  He glanced at the wristwatch he'd inherited from his stepfather five years ago. Before then, he'd always checked the time on his phone. Now, he liked having the reminder. Not only of the only father he'd ever known--a man who'd been unfairly robbed of life at sixty-two when he'd died of an unexpected heart attack--but of the simple fact that time was always too short.

  He'd expected Damien about nine-fifteen, just before the first marketing consultant arrived for his pitch at nine-thirty. But according to the analog display, it wasn't yet eight. "He's in my office? Did he say why he came so early?"

  She smoothed her short dark hair, a gesture he'd learned was a nervous habit. "All he said was that he was going to wait in your office. I didn't know--I mean, I wasn't sure--"

  "It's fine," he assured her, understanding perfectly why even his pit bull would have been too intimidated to suggest Stark wait elsewhere, or to inquire why he'd arrived so early. To put it bluntly, Damien Stark was a force of nature. A former professional tennis player, he'd left the game to launch a multi-billion-dollar international conglomerate with fingers in tech, real estate, entertainment, and so much more. From what Noah had read in the papers and learned for himself, the man had a past even more twisted than Noah's, and an intellect and work ethic that made Noah look like a slacker.

  Noah had known Damien socially first through their mutual friend Dallas Sykes, and he'd found the man surprisingly down to earth. But once Noah had come to work for Stark Applied Technology, Noah had witnessed Damien's drive first hand--not to mention how much personal involvement Damien had in all aspects of his empire.