Killian

by Sabrina Paige

  the suites. Your drinks are on me. Whatever you would like. The sky’s the limit.”

  I was just opening my mouth to decline - a couple of cheap beers was just fine with me - when Trigg ambled up beside me. “Free drinks in the penthouse bar?” he asked. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But we’re just drinking beer in the bar down here with the other commoners.”

  The old man chuckled. “Well, if you change your mind,” he said. He handed me a card. “You’ll need this key card to access the upper floors.”

  Wordlessly, he turned and ambled away.

  Trigg snatched the card from my hand. “Well, boys,” he said. “Tonight we get to drink like the rich folks do. Silas, that includes you."

  11

  Tempest

  Iver handed me a glass of champagne. "To another job well done," he said, raising his glass. "Where is Oscar, anyway?"

  As if on cue, the door to the suite opened, and Oscar ambled inside. "I'm here," he said. "I was just getting some fresh air."

  Emir handed him a glass. "The money is set up in accounts that the family will be able to access under the radar of any government entity. Minus our shares, of course."

  Iver nodded. "I'll deliver the news to Deborah."

  I sighed. "What's next, boys?"

  Iver shrugged. "The south of France is nice this time of year."

  "Emir?" I asked.

  "I have a flight out of town tomorrow," he said. "There's a comic convention, and a new video game I've been dying to hole up for a week with."

  "And you, Oscar?" I asked. "Far flung travel plans?"

  "Oh, you know," he said. "An old man like me, I'm not chasing models and yachting anymore."

  Iver chuckled. "Don't let him tell you stories, Ariana," he said, calling me by my grifter alias. "Oscar's got more life left in his pinkie than the rest of us do in our entire bodies. What are you really up to, old man?"

  Oscar laughed. "I think I'm going to spend a month in Rome," he said.

  Iver sighed. "There was this Italian girl once..."

  Emir held up his hand. "The rest of us mere mortals don't need to hear about your escapades with models and heiresses."

  Iver's eyes twinkled. "Speaking of heiresses, there's a shipping magnate's daughter I really should check up on."

  Emir grimaced. "Don't you ever get tired of being a man whore?" he asked.

  Iver grinned. "I don't understand the question," he said, turning to me. "Does the question make any sense to you?"

  I laughed. "Boys, stop your bickering."

  "What are your plans for your time off, Ariana?" Oscar asked. "Are you leaving it up to fate?"

  After a job, I usually headed to the airport with no luggage and no plans, to take whatever flight was available that suited my fancy. I guess I could throw a dart at a map or something, really leave it up to fate to decide. And maybe I would do that, sometime in the future. But this time, I was going back to Colorado. My grandmother was still there. It had been almost a year since I'd sneaked back to see her, and that was long enough.

  I sipped from the glass. "I think so," I lied. “Should we meet in New York next time, boys?”

  Another grifter’s rule - always keep moving. We rotated cities and discarded identities like people changed clothes.

  “At the Four Seasons, I think,” Iver said. “Or the Ritz.”

  “The Ritz,” Oscar said. “Now, shall we retire to the restaurant for dinner?"

  Iver paused. "Oscar, you look like the cat that ate the canary," he said. "What deviousness do you have planned?"

  Emir wrinkled his nose. "Please say you didn't tell the maitre'd it was one of our birthdays," he said. “If I have to listen to wait staff sing to me…”

  "Oh God, Oscar," I said. "If you have something up your sleeve..."

  Oscar put his hands in the air. "Can't an old man dine with friends without his motives being questioned at every turn?" he asked, exhaling heavily. "Grifters are some of the least trusting people in the world."

  Iver laughed. "Spoken like a guilty man," he said.

  12

  Silas

  "Holy shit. This place is insane," Trigg said, his voice only semi-hushed, in the way that drunken people try to whisper.

  "We can order food and everything, right?" Abel leaned in toward me. "I'm afraid they're going to come after us with an insanely huge bill."

  I was wary myself, but I shook my head. "It seems to all be taken care of," I admitted. "I mean, they even let us in dressed the way we are."

  We weren't exactly in gym clothes, but we weren't dressed like the few other people, mostly couples, here in the dimly lit restaurant. I'd seen two couples escorted through the bar area toward the restaurant, and they wore suits and dresses.

  And here I'd thought I was getting really dressed up tonight by putting on jeans and a polo shirt. We had to stand out like sore thumbs here, even if the bar area was empty.

  "Cigar, gentlemen?" A man appeared tableside, wearing a tuxedo and carrying a box.

  "Hell fucking yeah," Trigg said, then cleared his throat. "I mean, yes. Please. That would be excellent. Sir."

  Beside me, I heard Abel stifle a laugh. "Classy," he said under his breath.

  We selected cigars, and laid them on the table.

  "This is some kind of life," Trigg said. "Hell, if I go pro, this is how life would be all the time."

  "If you went pro," Abel said. "You'd be training and living clean so you didn't lose everything you worked for."

  "Shit, man," Trigg said, gesturing down the length of his body. "This body is a damn machine. It can handle anything I throw at it."

  Abel laughed. "Whatever, dude," he said. "Give it a few years. Wait until you're thirty. Shit, even twenty five."

  "That's forever away," Trigg said. "Right now, I'm in my motherfucking prime. All of us are."

  "Yeah, man, look at me," Abel said, gesturing to his leg in the cast. "I'm like the definition of prime, right here."

  I happened to look across the room as they laughed. And suddenly, everything faded into the background.

  It was her.

  Tempest.

  She was standing there in the entrance to the restaurant, wearing this little black dress that skimmed over her curves, the material shimmering in the candlelight. She should have looked conservative, elegant in the dress she wore -it was that kind of a dress- but she couldn't have looked edgier if she had tried. The strapless gown did nothing to conceal the tattoos that twisted around her forearms and biceps, snaked across her shoulder, and peeked out from underneath the tiny straps.

  Of course, she could have been wearing a fucking paper bag, for all it mattered to me - I couldn't take my eyes off her.

  When her eyes met mine, her lips parted, just slightly.

  It was like everything in the world stopped, in that moment.

  I stood up.

  I knew I should feel angry at her for leaving. I knew I should want nothing to do with her. She was a fucking thief who made promises, ran off with things that were precious to me.

  Like my seventeen-year-old heart.

  But I just couldn't help myself. I wanted her.

  I crossed the room, hearing Abel protest from where he sat at the table. "What the hell are you doing, Silas?"

  "Holy shit. That's that TV producer," Trigg said, hooting. "He's got some balls. She's out of his fucking league. She's with the rich guy, the one who bought our drinks."

  Behind her stood a group of men. They were unassuming, nondescript, didn't look like they belonged together as a group in any way. One wore an expensive suit, like some kind of male model. One wore a hoodie and sneakers, black-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. And the older man, the one who'd invited us up here to begin with, stood there behind them in a cardigan, holding a cane.

  I felt a rush of something I couldn't quite place, seeing her with them. These men had to be the people she was working with, the people she'd chosen to
be with.

  Her crew.

  A wave of jealousy washed over me, this feeling of possessiveness I couldn't shake. She'd been mine once.

  Or, rather, once upon a time I thought she was mine.

  I told myself I had no right to her anymore. I'd never had a right to her, even back then.

  I stopped, a few feet away from the group, looking at the old man. "You."

  Tempest turned to look behind her. "Oscar," she said, her voice soft. "What did you do?"

  He shrugged. "I'm simply an old man, looking for a meal," he said, taking the sleeve of the man in the suit and calling for the host. "I think a table at the far end, over there by the window, will do nicely. For three."

  The nerd with the glasses looked up from his phone. "There's four of us."

  The man in the suit patted him on the back and cleared his throat. "I do believe it's just the three of us for dinner, Emir," he said.

  The group followed the maitre'd across the restaurant, and I stepped forward, close to Tempest.

  I had the nearly irresistible urge to slide my hand up to the nape of her neck, grab a handful of hair, and draw her against me.

  Or to fucking throttle her.

  I wasn't sure which feeling was stronger.

  Instead, I stood there, looking at her. "Tempest Wilde," I said. "Or should I call you Maggie?"

  She stood there, expressionless for a moment. "You found me," she said.

  I wasn't sure if she was disappointed or pleased.

  And then a smile played on the edges of her lips. "Silas Saint," she said. "It's been a long time."

  She tilted her head down, swept a strand of brown and purple hair over her forehead, and looked up at me, eyes twinkling. Her hair was different from the way I remembered. But the look she gave me was familiar.

  That part, I hadn't forgotten.

  13

  Tempest

  "What are you doing here, Tempest?" Silas asked. He stood so close to me that I couldn't think about anything except the way his lips would feel as they dragged across my skin.

  "A girl gets hungry," I said. As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how much they sounded like an innuendo. Silas made a sound in his throat, low and guttural.

  I stood there motionless, drinking in his presence.

  I wanted to stay there forever, life on hold.

  "You were at the fight," he said. "Maggie. Jameson, is it now?"

  "Tempest," I said. "It’s Tempest. It always was."

  He laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. Instead, it was just bitter. "Your name was real, then?" he asked. "That's the only thing about you that wasn't a lie."

  "You know that's not true, Silas," I said, my voice soft. "With you, it was real. We were real." He thought I'd deceived him, ripped out his heart and left West Bend - left him - without a care in the world.

  He couldn't know how hard it was for me to leave back then. His mother had been right. I would only drag him down.

  He had no idea how hard it was now, standing here before him.

  "Do I know that, Tempest?” he asked. "You don't know the meaning of the word real."

  "I did love you once," I said, honest. For once. “Back then. That was real.”

  Something flickered across his face, painful and intense, and I almost regretted telling the truth. It was wrong, telling him something that would cause him more pain, years later.

  Silas stepped forward, so close to me I could feel his warm breath, his face inches from mine. I heard him inhale, and every cell in my body responded to his nearness, anticipating his touch.

  Desperate for his touch.

  I wanted to know if his lips tasted the way they used to. I wanted to know if he felt the same way underneath my fingertips that he did years ago. I wanted to know if our bodies would meld together, fitting like two puzzle pieces, the way they did when we were teenagers, initially fumbling and naive.

  But he didn't kiss me.

  Instead, he slid his hand up my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake, until his hand reached the nape of my neck. He clutched at my hair, grasping a handful, and pulled me close to him. The movement sent a shock of pain through my body that made me wince.

  Followed immediately by a rush of arousal at his touch.

  "Outside," he growled. "Now."

  Only barely loosening his grip on my hair, his hand still on my neck, he led me around the tables in the bar, past his friends, and through the tinted glass doors that opened onto a balcony, empty of anyone else. The cityscape stretched out in front of us, the twinkling lights of Vegas that went on for miles until they faded away at the edge of the desert. Music pumped softly over the speakers.

  Silas pushed me forward until we reached the far end of the balcony, where a canopy with white billowing fabric framed matching white cushioned lounges and glass tables. Without asking, he took my purse from my hands and set it on one of the tables. He barely stopped moving. Instead, he guided me toward the edge of the space, his grip on me unyielding.

  He only stopped when we reached the glass wall that lined the balcony, finally letting go of me.

  I turned to face him, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. “Most people would say ‘Hello. How have you been? Have a seat. Can I buy you a cocktail?’” I said.

  Silas didn’t smile. His expression was dark, his eyes greyer than the soft blue from my memories, like the kind of sky you see at the beach right before a storm.

  Dark and foreboding.