Lisha reached for the handrims, but Atticus beat her to it, pushing her chair up to the ledge. She breathed deep, almost salivating into the bowl as the scent wound into her senses. The little sections of sandwich hadn’t filled the hole in her belly, not even close, but this promised to give her everything she craved. “Thank you, Atticus.”
His fingertips skimmed around her ear as he returned to the stove to get his own bowl. When he came back, his dark brow rose in question. Setting his food down, he sat and pointed a finger at her untouched meal. “You’re not eating, princess.”
She scrambled into action, grabbing the spoon and dipping it into the soup quickly. As though he might take it away, she brought the steaming liquid to her mouth, only for Att to reach out and snare her wrist in thick fingers.
“Whoa! Easy, Lisha. It’s hot, you’ll burn your mouth if you’re not careful.” He was close enough to lean over and blow lightly on the spoon. Once, twice, those full lips pursing on the exhale. “There, try it now.”
Try what now? she thought hazily. That mouth? Sure, I can do that.
“Focus, Alicia,” he admonished gently, lifting her wrist and guiding the spoon to her mouth. “I know you’re not feeling good, but you need to eat.”
Not feeling good? She almost laughed. For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t cooking in her own sweat and bodily fluids in Arizona’s summer temps. She was clean, her skin could breathe, could heal. There was food literally in front of her, her thirst was slaked, and she’d fallen asleep knowing—deep in her bones—there wouldn’t be anyone sneaking into her room to cop a feel.
She felt more than not good. She felt…secure.
Safe.
Her lips parted for the spoon. The heat of the clear liquid tasted like heaven, sending her taste buds into fits of rapture. A low, pained sound escaped her when her stomach cramped with the first swallow, but as Atticus disregarded his own meal to focus on feeding her, she simply ignored it and ate everything he gave her.
That crush of hers swelled exponentially.
Atticus didn’t touch her, though she noted his hand twitched a time or two as though it was a habit for him to do so. She could see him as a tactile man, sure, absorbing everything through those rough hands and long fingers.
It didn’t even seem weird that he wanted to feed her, blowing on every spoonful before slipping it between her lips. She didn’t mind that he didn’t speak—it made her feel like they’d done this before. Why use words when deciphering his thoughts was so much fun, and involved watching his eyes?
Such lovely eyes, she thought with a quiet sigh.
He reached over and grabbed her juice, handing it to her as he selected a piece of bread. “While you’re quiet, I should tell you there are some anxious people waiting to see you, princess.” He steadied her hands when she bobbled the glass. “It was inevitable, and you know it. There were too many missed visits, Lisha. Your calls were almost non-existent. I wasn’t the only one who noticed.” A tap of his finger on the bottom of the glass told her he wanted her to drink, so she did. “Connie wants to visit. I know you’ve been out of the loop, but she went through hell a couple months back. Things have changed a lot, for everyone, and I think that Connie is the best person to tell you about them.”
The orange juice soured in her mouth. Alicia swallowed with difficulty. “No.”
“Alicia—”
“Please. Not when I…” She cleared her throat and set her drink down, then pushed the almost empty bowl away. “Connie took me in after I killed my parents, Atticus. She took me into her home, treated me like her sister, when no one else wanted to. Even though I had blood on my hands, and she didn’t know who I was, she took me in because I was Bodie’s family. Again, despite me being part of the family who tried to ruin Bodie.”
“She loves you.”
“She didn’t, not back then. Maybe, after a while, she started to, but I ruined it in true McGee fashion. I couldn’t open up to her, didn’t know how to say the words, and I…I pushed her away.” It was the first time she’d admitted it to anyone but herself. “That’s why I didn’t fight when Braun wanted me to go. I just figured she’d finally had enough of me, and couldn’t bring herself to kick me out.”
“Well, that’s bullshit,” he fired back, clamping his fingers on her nape and angling her head so she had no choice but to see the truth in his eyes. “Connie fought tooth and nail against Braun to keep you with her, Alicia. It broke her. Losing you hurt her, princess,” he said in a gentler tone. “Not seeing you now is making a strong woman turn into a big, scary momma bear.”
Chapter Three
The girl surprised him at every turn.
Atticus honestly thought Alicia would deny Connie’s visit because of her appearance. He never imagined she might feel guilty for the behavior she’d displayed during her time with the Mistress—behavior she had no control over, in his opinion.
He remembered staying with her a few times, when Connie had to work late and was worried about her charge. It hadn’t been a hardship then, just as it wasn’t now, but the Alicia from only a few months ago wasn’t the one sitting beside him with his fingers around her neck.
“I spent some time with Connie, quality time, and you have been the center of her life since she met you. Meeting Thane didn’t alter that in the slightest—he’s her new…boyfriend,” he added, downplaying the newest Master’s role in Connie’s life. “In fact, he was making plans to renovate his home so you could go visit with Con, stay if you wanted to. She’s never once said she doesn’t want you in her life—everything she’s done has proved the exact opposite.”
Alicia blew out a breath, then grasped the rims of her chair. Rolling back from the counter, she angled the wheelchair so she could look at him, but the connection of his hand was broken. Those damned blue eyes were shadowed again. “If you believe it’s the right thing to do, I’ll do it.”
God, he wished fervently he could place her in the role of his little girl. It would make moments like these so much easier to deal with, because some part of her was still essentially a child. “I could tell you it’s the right thing to do,” he mused, sitting back in his chair and watching her. “I could take the decision of right and wrong out of your hands, and say Connie’s coming to visit tomorrow regardless of how that makes you feel. But that’s a position you’ve been put in too many times, isn’t it? With no regard for what you want.”
She shrugged listlessly. “I just do as I’m told, Atticus. Makes my life less…”
“Complicated?” he suggested when she simply trailed off.
Her gaze dropped to her feet. “Painful.”
Well, fuck. “Want to tell me about it, princess?”
Lifting her hand, Alicia ran her palm over the black bristle covering her scalp. He swore her eyes sank further into her face, the blue fading. Within seconds, the Alicia he’d been getting to know receded back into the one he remembered. “It’s late. I’d like to go back to bed, if you don’t have plans for me.”
Atticus sighed. He could hold onto her, keep her here and try to get her to talk, but that ship was sailing from view. Pressuring her now, today of all damn days, would only cause another rift he wouldn’t be able to fix quickly enough. Letting her go disturbed him, particularly with so much left up in the air, but there was always tomorrow. “Go to bed, princess. I’ll be up for a couple more hours if you need anything.”
Shoulders slumped, she moved forward, then reached out and touched his forearm with those fragile fingers. “Thank you for dinner, Atticus. I loved it.”
Turning in his seat, he watched her until she was out of sight. As much as he wanted to go with her, see to her needs, tuck her in tight…that wasn’t what she could deal with right now. Too many people in her life had been pressing their needs on her, using her as a crutch to get what they wanted, and had left her feeling worthless.
She was worth more than everything he owned now, or would accumulate in the future.
When the
kitchen fell silent, Atticus swiveled around and made short work of his now cold meal, finishing the soup and the bread, then spent twenty minutes tidying up the counters and shoving dishes in the dishwasher. Everything was spick, span, and shiny when he walked out, switching off the lights, and headed for his office.
A quick peek in Alicia’s room showed him she was asleep, or pretending to be. He left her alone, hoping that the pretense might be enough to drag her into dreamland if she wasn’t there already.
The list of what he needed to follow through on was longer than his goddamn arm, but Atticus was skilled in juggling tasks. He’d gone from a young idiot trying to save the world by himself to the man he was today—accomplished, trustworthy, with a highly trained team of techs and operatives at his command.
He had money—which meant nothing to him.
His name meant something in a lot of circles—which gave him pride.
Heisler was no longer a name associated with a drunken jackass who lost his shit when his blood alcohol level was strong enough to pour back into the bottle and sell again. It wasn’t the name slashed across the top of hospital records on a weekly basis, or the local bounty hunter’s favorite hobby.
When he’d turned sixteen, Atticus had been ashamed of the family name. He’d been one step away from erasing years of history and ending the Heisler lineage by changing his last name. One small step. The day he turned eighteen, sick to death of making excuses for broken bones, he packed his shit and spent six months bumming his way around California, figuring out what he was, who he could be.
As the only son of the only son, there were no others to carry on the name. His grandfather’s sister had born children, but only girls that Atticus knew of, girls incapable of passing on the hereditary curse.
The moment he decided to turn his life around and build Heisler into something he could be proud of, he’d been stretched out on China Cove Beach in Orange County with sand in his ass crack and the stars gleaming in the night sky like tiny wishes waiting for him to choose one.
In a way, he had.
He’d wished to be someone, to make himself into a man whose eyes he could meet in the goddamn mirror every morning.
Thirty years after that enlightening evening, Atticus didn’t just meet his eyes in the mirror every morning, he stared down the man he saw lurking in the green depths.
His father’s eyes.
Shaking that off, he poured himself two fingers of Glenlivet—the stuff was older than Alicia—and situated his tired ass in his chair. He was getting fucking old. Every time a joint creaked or his muscles ached, it reminded him that time was moving on, carrying him along with it.
In two short years, he would be fifty years old.
The big five-zero.
He’d checked off all the boxes on his list of professional goals, but there were still several things in his personal life he hadn’t achieved—finding his perfect little, settling down, maybe even stretching the fantasy to a couple of spaniels and a baby or two.
As days ticked past into weeks, months, years…that fantasy was dying a slow death.
In all honesty, what he really craved was a hard fuck, giving some quality aftercare, and falling into his bed for a solid six hours’ sleep before he got up and started all over again. He thought about the three open invitations from his three favorite playmates at the club as he roused the computer from sleep mode and pulled up the day’s schedule.
Phantom echoes of a flogger snapping against writhing flesh were overridden by the rapid taps of his fingertips on the keyboard. Rather than a living canvas warming beneath the strikes of his toys, he had to focus on the screen.
Sipping scotch as he made calls to each of his guys on the roster, he updated his notes on their assigned cases, talking through the next steps or proposed actions if required. For the most part, he had complete faith in his crew. They’d worked with him long enough that they knew his rhythm, his ethics, and how he’d handle most situations.
Atticus just liked having his finger on all the pulses, all the time.
When it became clear there was nothing urgent for him to deal with, he finished up his calls, and started digging into the news reports for the rehab facility bust. As he expected, there were not a lot of details readily available, other than the residents had been relocated while an investigation into the standards and welfare of the place got underway.
Att quickly set up a search alert for any fresh reports, then brought up the contact details on his phone for the private investigator he often used to gather intel.
He had a bone to pick with the sonofabitch.
“Heisler, you need me again so soon?” Leyland Rossi answered almost immediately despite the late hour, telling Atticus the man was working just as late as he was.
“Quite the opposite, Rossi. I’m trying to decide whether you were just lazy or fucking inept when you jeopardized our mutually profitable working arrangement.” Att sipped his scotch as silence hummed down the line. The glass was almost empty, but he never refilled it once he reached the bottom—he refused to become his father in that respect, unable to live with an empty glass. “Think over your answer very carefully before you speak.”
There was a resigned sigh. “Goddamn it. Which intel didn’t pan out?”
“You tell me. How many jobs have you short-changed me on, Rossi?”
“None, I swear! Any information I’ve given you has been correct to my knowledge. I wouldn’t have sent it over if I didn’t think it was, you know how much I value my reputation, Atticus.”
“I’m sensing a but,” he growled.
“My sister’s boy has been making noises about joining the family business. Thinks it’s all spy games and danger,” Rossi scoffed, not unkindly. “I’ve been giving him low profile assignments to get his feet wet, you know? And I figured, recon on a rehab facility couldn’t be anything he’d get into trouble with.”
The glass almost took flight as Atticus’ temper threatened to snap. He thought of the substantial retainer he paid the man, the unrivaled trust he’d placed in Rossi’s hands to do a job, and snarled. “How many assignments of mine have you given to your goddamn nephew, Leyland? How much fucking intel involved in my business is now worthless or liable to put my team in harm’s way?”
“I only gave him the rehab assignment. I didn’t think he could fuck it up.”
“Yeah, well, you were wrong. Unfortunately for you, you’re responsible for his work. I’ll be taking that retainer back, every last damn cent.”
“Come on, Att, give me a chance to fix this. Heisler Security is my top contract—I can’t afford to lose you. Look, tell me what he fucked up and I’ll do whatever I can to make it right. Including kicking the little bastard’s ass up and down the county.”
“Take a look at the reports you emailed me, Rossi, the ones your dickless nephew put together, and then cast your eyes over the photos I’m sending you now. Take a good, hard look,” he advised coldly, already accessing the file where Anarchy had stored the photos of Alicia’s room at the facility and attaching them to an email. A few taps on the keys and the images were one hundred and twenty miles away, landing on Rossi’s phone. “When you figure out what he fucked up and what he—and in turn, you—are gonna do to fix it, you let me know.”
Before he could let loose with the world’s most vicious diatribe on the inept youth of today, Atticus ended the call. The plastic casing squeaked in protest, so he set the phone down carefully and gave his hair a hard yank to calm the beast pacing furiously in his head.
No matter what Rossi came back with, there was no way Att would risk his team by continuing a business relationship with a PI who was negligent in choosing trustworthy investigators to do the damn job they were paid to do. Rossi’s choice to take his nephew into his employ was his own, but he would have to take responsibility for the kid’s actions—actions which had resulted in Alicia being held prisoner in a shithole for almost three months.
Next time, the wrong i
ntel could land Att’s men in the hospital, or six feet under.
Can’t blame the boy entirely. Rossi either. Should have double checked the data, driven out and done the recon personally. Should have insisted on taking her out there to see the place firsthand instead of letting her call the shots.
Atticus huffed out a breath. Checking his emails one last time, he shut down the computer as the clock hit twenty past midnight. Taking the now empty glass with him, he left the office, switching off the lights before heading down the hallway.
Alicia was sleeping quietly, so he continued to his bedroom, moving straight into the adjoining bathroom to rinse out the glass. He hated the smell of alcohol in the morning, despised how it lingered in the room—washing out his nightcap glass was simpler than dealing with the nausea of his memories when he woke in a booze-scented space.
With that pesky little task done, he set the shower running, leaving it to warm up as he brushed his teeth. Three minutes later after his final rinse and spit, he stripped off his pants and stretched.
Tomorrow was going to be a long day. He still didn’t have an answer from Lisha about whether she’d allow Connie to visit—if she agreed, the long day would become highly emotional. Alicia was strung tight, and God knew Connie was still on edge despite Thane carting her off to the cabin in the woods for over a month.
Being beaten and threatened with rape could shake even the strongest of women.
Hot water pounded down over his head and shoulders when he stepped under the trio of showerheads, pummeling into the thick ridges of his muscles like many eager fingers. He let the heat and the force do what alcohol couldn’t achieve—relax the tension that seemed to forever plague him.
Sometime between him falling asleep and waking up in the morning, there would be emails landing in his inbox from his connections in Ireland and Switzerland, where two of the couples believed to be acting as decoys for Jasper’s parents had stopped running…for the moment. They’d go again, soon, but this time, traps were being built around them.
Walk For Me: Club Avalon Book 4 Page 6