by Freya Barker
“Get your own,” I tell him without slowing down.
“Asshole!” His voice follows me to the elevator and I chuckle as I get on.
One of the PASS rooms is empty and only kicking off my boots and taking off my holster, I roll into bed. I’m already half asleep when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Yeah,” I answer groggily.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I...I mean, you...you told me to call.”
“Rosie.” I’m suddenly wide-awake. “You got home okay?”
“I did. Thanks again for breakfast. Go back to sleep.”
I don’t get a chance to answer because she’s already hung up. She’s got a great voice, but it’s even better over the phone. Slightly raspy and sexy as fuck. Suddenly my jeans feel a little too tight and I’m very awake, at least my body is.
A hot shower and a quick hand job later, I roll back in bed, falling asleep in seconds—pretending her pretty lips and bright eyes on the pillow beside me.
ROSIE
I tuck my phone back in my purse and get out of the car, a smile on my face.
The moment I open the door, however, the smile fades. I hear Mom before I see her, calling out for my father. Something she does from time to time when she wakes up and feels disoriented. Hillary is trying to keep Mom in bed, but I can see she’s struggling.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I direct at Hillary, as I move into the room. “Mom? Can you help me brush my hair?” I grab the brush from her nightstand and hold it up for her to see. When she doesn’t respond, I grab one of her hands, batting at poor Hillary, and press the brush in her palm. “Can you brush my hair, Mom?” I try again, and this time she stops struggling and her eyes search around until she spots me. Hillary slips off the bed, as I smoothly take her place, like a well-orchestrated dance we’ve executed many times before. Mom’s other hand comes up and reaches for my hair so I turn around and let her do her thing.
“Go back to bed for a bit,” I whisper to Hillary who nods and shuffles off.
We discovered it quite by accident, a while ago, when Hillary suggested brushing Mom’s hair to relax her. I barely got one stroke in and Mom had snatched the brush from my hand and started brushing mine instead. It’s an odd experience, reminiscent of a time before she became disappointed and bitter, and ultimately forgot who I was.
Although physically relaxing, it often leaves me feeling emotionally raw. Something I would’ve liked to avoid this morning, since I already feel a bit wobbly on my emotional feet. By the time Mom is relaxed enough for me to take the brush from her hand and tuck her in, I’m crying.
I head straight for my room, barely managing to strip down before I dive under the covers. And with my face still wet with tears, and the sweet concern of a dark, confusing man rooting in my mind, I finally fall asleep.
CHAPTER 5
JAKE
“So what’s the deal with the maid?”
I struggle to keep my temper in check when Yanis directs his attention to me.
We’re in the small kitchen on the second floor of the warehouse. A space used as a break room by our guys, but doubles as a meeting room. Today is an indoor film day, which means we have a team meeting. When they shoot outside, it’s all hands on deck for security, but guarding the film crew inside doesn’t require as much manpower.
Of course, the main topic of discussion is the police probe into the hit-and-run, which apparently is half-assed at best. At least hearing Bree talk about it. She’s the one who’s been keeping feelers on the investigation through her connections with the GJPD. It would appear the poor homeless sap, who was left dead in the alley, takes up less blotter space than a council member’s garage door graffitied by vandals. Which is good news for us, I guess. Although I find myself wishing the incident wasn’t so damn easy to cover up. Then whatever Rosie did or didn’t see would become irrelevant. Now she’s a loose end Yanis keeps picking at.
“Under control,” I bite off, staring at the floor, forcing my irritation down. I’m not happy with the focus on her.
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“She keeps to herself. Her circle is small and she has no social life to speak of. If she was planning to say anything, she would’ve done so already, but she won’t. She’ll keep whatever she heard or saw to herself.”
“How can you be sure?” Yanis prods. “Doesn’t she know you’re part of the security detail?”
“Because I’m planning to keep a close eye. Besides, she had reason and opportunity to talk when that sleazeball propositioned her last night in the pool, but even then she didn’t say a word.” I look up at my boss and find his gaze on me, assessing me. I’m still pissed at Steele after having to drag him to his suite and read him the riot act—again.
“Very well, but just so you know, our client has some concerns, and is willing to put some money on the table if need be,” he finally states.
“Drexler was told about her?”
“Hutch, Drexler is the one signing the checks. You know what’s on the line here. Of course he was told,” Dimi interjects for his brother. From the corner of my eye, I see Bree shifting restlessly at the spike in tension in the air, and I catch the subtle shake of her head as she motions for me not to push it. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time if I did.
“Fine,” I give in, turning to Yanis. “Tell Drexler your man has it under control, and he can keep his money in his pocket, but his own star is the one to worry about.”
“Fair enough,” he concedes. “I will reiterate that with Phil, as long as you can assure me that if there is even the smallest doubt this woman might become an issue, you won’t hesitate to use money, or whatever else, you need to convince her to stay quiet.”
I can’t bring myself to respond to that, since I’m grinding my teeth so hard I’m afraid I’ll chip one, I nod sharply instead.
“Dude,” Dimi says later, when we’re grabbing a quick slice of pizza before the production calls a wrap for the day. “Why do you keep poking the bear?”
“You’re talking about your brother?” I ask, mouth full of pizza. Dimas nods affirmatively. “Not about poking anything,” I explain. “But don’t you ever wonder what happened to fighting the bad guys? Because that’s as simple as it used to be; the bad guys were the enemy. Now?” I shove a frustrated hand in my hair and tug a few times. “Fuck, man—we’re upside down—shielding a bad guy and threatening an innocent woman. What the fuck? Doesn’t that bother you?”
I look over at Dimas, who tosses the slice he was eating on his plate and wipes his hands on a napkin.
“Yeah, it bothers me,” he finally replies. “Which is why I’m not the one making those kinds of decisions. I can’t do what Yanis does, always keeping an eye on the big picture, seeing the gray between the black and the white. Sometimes innocents pay the price for the benefit of all. Always have—always will. Only difference is we see it now. But don’t think for a second it doesn’t plague him, because it does, and you questioning him every step doesn’t make it easier—for anyone.”
I let that simmer for a bit while he picks up his slice again and finishes it off.
“Her life is not a cakewalk.” I’m not sure why I tell him that, he’s seen the background check, but a reminder felt appropriate. Dimi claps a hand on my shoulder in response, tosses a few bills on the table, and then walks out the door.
ROSIE
“Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to drag it out of you?”
Grant has been hounding me all night and I’ve successfully avoided him, until now. He has me cornered in the supply room off the hotel lobby, which I snuck into to grab some more toilet paper. He must’ve been lying in wait.
“Are those my only options?” I counter, trying to scoot around him, but he won’t let me through the door. “Grant, I’ve got work to do.”
“All the more reason to rip the Band-Aid off and tell Grant all about breakfast with dark and broody this morning.” I’m tempted to bite at the index finger he waves in my fac
e. I hate when he resorts to speaking in the third person.
“Well,” I start, managing to squeeze by his massive form and stack the toilet rolls on my cart. “I ordered scrambled eggs and toast. It was actually quite tasty. I had no idea that diner was open all night. Did you know that?” I ramble purposely as I push my cart to the elevator, knowing full well Grant can’t venture too far from the lobby.
“You’re being a tease,” he pouts when I push the elevator button.
“And you’re being nosy,” I fire back. “But just so you know, we talked a little, we ate a little. Actually; I ate a little, he ate the contents of a well-stocked, industrial-sized refrigerator.”
“Ooh, a voracious appetite. Me likey.” Grant grins big and claps his hands like a kid in a candy store. “And what did you talk about?”
“Me, mostly,” I admit, going over this morning’s events in my head, realizing how much I gave away and how little I learned. “I may well have shared a tad too freely.” It could explain why he’d been sleeping already when I called. I probably bored him to tears with my tales of woe, but if that were the case, the kiss confuses me. I’m pretty sure that actually happened, although I’m not going to tell Grant that. I’d never hear the end of it.
“Nonsense,” he says. “Getting you to talk is like pulling teeth. I’m surprised you did any sharing, let alone too much. I highly doubt it. Besides, men like that kind of stuff,” he adds, and I can’t help snicker. “What?”
“You mean you like that kind of stuff. Hate to break it to you, but you’re not like regular men.” I try to be sensitive but I needn’t have worried. This is Grant we’re talking about; he’ll take anything as a compliment.
“Bet your luscious ass I’m not,” he declares. “I’m my own brand of extra-special.”
I’m still snickering when the elevator doors slide open and I roll my cart inside.
“Later, Grant.” I turn to face him as the doors close.
“Later, Rosebud.”
The smile is still on my face when I get off on the second floor where the gym is located. It fades quickly, though, when I see someone has turned the lights off in the hallway. Irritated and a little apprehensive, I slide my hand along the wall to where I know the light switch to be. I flick it, but nothing happens. I try again, with the same result.
Pulling my cart close, I rummage through the small basket on the top shelf where I know I have a flashlight. I let out a sigh of relief when I find it and it turns on, no problem. With the narrow beam of light, I find my way over to the other side of the hallway by the locker rooms, where a second switch controls the lights on that side of the hallway.
That one doesn’t work either. None of the sconces lining the walls light up. The ceiling fixture inside the locker room does, though, and I prop the door open so its light filters into the hallway.
Normally this is a job for maintenance, but I just talked to Alex maybe fifteen minutes ago and he was on his way up to check on a plugged toilet. I don’t want to wait around for him to make his way down. I’ll first have a look myself.
I’m too short to reach the bulbs in the sconces, but when I shove my cart against the wall underneath, I can climb it like a ladder. Now I can easily stick my hand in, but I’m surprised to find the bulb gone. I find the same in the second sconce, and when I check the other two, the bulbs are missing as well.
An uneasy feeling gnaws at my stomach as I climb down. By the faint light coming from the locker room, I dig through the shelves of my cart for spare bulbs, looking over my shoulder every so often. Of course I have none, it’s Murphy’s Law. I recall leaving some in the small storage closet in the pool room, where we keep mops and chlorine tablets for the pool. It seemed easier since the lights on this floor tend to be on all night and burn out faster. The disappearing bulbs are something new.
Armed with my flashlight and keys, I make my way around the pool, trying not to slip on the still wet floor. Someone must’ve been swimming late for it to still be wet. The pool closed maybe forty-five minutes ago. The lock opens easily and I shine my flashlight inside. Three boxes of bulbs are stacked on the small shelf above the brooms and I’ll have to reach to take one down. Slipping the flashlight in my pocket, I brace the wall to steady me, and perching on tiptoes, I stretch my other arm up, scratching the tips of my fingers on the box of bulbs, trying to grab hold. I almost have the box teetering on the edge, when I feel myself yanked back and flying through the air before hitting the hard, wet surface of the water, a heavy weight pushing me down.
I struggle to stay close to the surface, fighting my instincts to scream and take in a lungful of water, but whatever, or whoever, is on top of me holding me down, is too strong. I don’t give up. I never stop fighting until darkness starts filling in my senses, pulling me under.
JAKE
“Thought you went home?”
Bree looks up with an eyebrow raised when I walk into the control room. My eyes scan the twelve monitors in front of her, most of which are focused on the main floor, lobby, entrance, and parking lot. To access the upper floors from the main floor, you need a key card to operate the elevator, or to enter the stairwell. Every so often, whoever is manning the screens will flip through the different feeds to check the other floors, but the prime focal point remains the entrance and exit points of the hotel.
“I crashed here,” I explain. “Steele was holed up with his agent in his suite, so it just seemed easier to crash here. Did you see the guy leave?”
“I did,” Bree confirms, flipping through a notebook in front of her. “Left at ten fifty-three.” She turns back to face me. “So why are you here in the middle of the night, wide-awake?”
I shrug and pull up a chair. “I crashed around eight. Four hours will do me most nights.”
“Not me. I need a good eight hours or I’m cranky as shit.”
“I don’t get cranky.” I try not to laugh at the disgruntled snort that remark earns me.
“Because cranky is the only way you come,” she fires off. I like Bree, she doesn’t take shit from anyone. The only complaint I have is she seems to have a sixth sense for bullshit. “Now I like shooting the shit as much as the next guy, but why don’t you tell me why you’re really here? You’re worried about her.”
Shouldn’t surprise me that she’s calling my bluff. I’m well aware she knows me better than I’m comfortable with, so I don’t even bother denying. “Find her for me?”
“She was in the lobby just before you walked in. Talking with her buddy. I think she went up. Let me check.” She clicks a few different feeds on the main screen when I see her lean closer. “What the hell?”
I hear her mutter and my eyes follow hers to the monitor on the far left showing the second floor hallway, which looks much darker than usual. You can just see light from the open door of the men’s locker room. Rosie’s abandoned cart is sitting at an awkward angle in the middle of the corridor, but there’s no sign of her.
“Check the feeds from the gym and the pool.” All I see is a black screen when she pulls them up. Something is most definitely wrong. “Keep looking,” I order her as I grab a radio and haul ass to the stairwell.
I barge through the doors on two and am momentarily disoriented by the much darker hallway. Focusing on the sparse light at the other end, I find my way to the gym, drawing my gun from the holster as I go. My eyes are still adjusting, and I can barely make out the equipment when I cautiously move in, but there’s no one here. With my back to the wall, my weapon in hand, I slowly ease my way to the door leading to the pool, when I hear the slam of a door on the far side.
There’s only one way into the pool, but there is a second door that leads out to the rooftop patio and hot tub. From there you can double back into the hallway on the other side of the elevators.
I push away from the wall and run along the pool to the door at then end, when something catches my eye in the water and stops me in my tracks. Initially it looks like fabric, billowing under the surface,
but then I recognize the color. The rich copper tones of Rosie’s hair.
I don’t even think, I drop the gun and the radio to the pool deck, and dive right in, reaching for her.
Her body is dead weight as I drag her to the surface. Instinct takes over as I pull her on the edge, place her on her back, and begin blowing air into her lungs. Almost immediately she starts convulsing. I roll her to her side while she retches to expel the water from her lungs.
“Jesus, Rosie,” I mumble, wiping the hair from her face as she sputters and coughs. She blinks a few times and opens her eyes. I know the instant her confused gaze lands on me, because she starts scrambling away from me. “Easy,” I try, but I doubt she hears me.
The crackle of the radio draws my attention and I hear Bree’s voice calling my name.
“You’ve got me,” I answer, after snatching the radio off the floor without taking my eyes of Rosie, who’s cowering against the wall.
“Goddammit, Hutch. All I saw on the monitor was you diving into the water, but I never saw you come up. Is she okay?”
“Call an ambulance,” I bark, watching her eye me until I mention an ambulance, then she sharply shakes her head no.
“No ambulance.”
“Hold off on that for a sec, Bree.” I slowly approach Rosie, who no longer looks scared, but appears determined, despite the tears coursing down her cheeks.
“No ambulance,” she says again, firmer this time.
“You need to be looked at.”
“Hillary, my mom’s nurse, she can check me out. Please...” It just takes me a second to decide.
“Forget the ambulance, Bree. I’m taking her home. Have Grant Peabody grab her belongings and meet us at the door to the alley. Keep a close eye on the monitors and back up all the feeds from eleven o’clock until now. I also need you to close off access to the second floor. I’ll contact Dimi and will update you in a bit.” Professional that she is—Bree doesn’t waste time asking questions—she follows instructions.