by Elodie Colt
He grins, not removing his eyes from the road to dodge the occasional roadkill. “Mary… Then I’m Jack.”
I grin, too. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”
We both know the names are bullshit, but who cares? Come tomorrow morning, I’ll be nothing more than a fading dent in his scrubbed passenger seat.
“How far is it to the next gas station?” I ask.
“About six miles.”
I groan. Of. Course.
“Why, you bored already?” He chuckles, leaning over and opening the glove box to pull out a blunt from underneath stacks of crumpled papers, lighters, and—surprise—condoms. He doesn’t seem disturbed when one of the square plastic packages drops to the floor in between my legs.
“No. The number six and I are on bad terms, is all.”
“Yeah? But six is a good number.”
I fidget in my seat, shooing away the memory of when I’d said the same to a certain man some time ago.
“In Tarot, six is the card of the lover,” Jack goes on, wriggling a pair of bushy eyebrows at me.
I grunt. “Six is also associated with the devil.”
“True.” He shoves the crooked blunt into his mouth, fetches a lighter from underneath the dashboard, and sparks off the end. “I like your accent. Are you from Russia?”
I twist the zipper on my jacket just to keep my hands busy. “Yep.”
“You on vacation in Pennsylvania, or what?”
“No. I moved to the states some time ago.”
“Huh.” He blows out a cloud of smoke and hands me the blunt.
Shrugging, I take it. I can feel his probing gaze on me when I inhale the sharp flavors, ignoring the sting as tears well up in my eyes.
“I’ve never met a Russian chick.”
I puff out the smoke. A wave of relaxation washes over me instantly. “What you wanted to say was, you’ve never screwed a Russian chick, right?”
“Busted.” He slaps the steering wheel. “You wanna be my first, by any chance?”
I press the blunt between my lips once more, stalling. He reeks of sweat, dust, weed, and a sweet distraction I’m not averse to tasting. Jack might just be the fix I need to forget how lost I am in this world. Also, he’s rocking that I-know-how-to-make-you-feel-good vibe that makes me hot every time his smoldering eyes flicker to me.
I exhale the smoke slowly, popping my jaw a few times to blow some O’s. “Quite blunt, are we?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”
I utter a low chuckle. We spend the rest of the ride with easy banter and ambiguous jokes until we pass the first ‘gas station’ sign. He pulls over and halts on the sidelines of the small building, away from the light beams.
The air gets thick as soon as he kills the engine, and he takes the blunt from me to flick the stub out of the window. Dolly Parton complains about working nine to five in the background when Jack stretches out his arm to lean it on my backrest. His fingers find the nape of my neck, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. The longer I feel his analyzing gaze on me, the faster my heart pumps against my rib cage.
Three fingers find my chin, applying a little pressure to make me look at him. His gaze dips down to my lips which he traces with his rough thumb.
“You’re quite a beauty, Mary,” he drawls before he leans in to fuse his mouth with mine.
His lips are soft, quite plush for a male, and I let my eyes slide closed as he frames my cheek with his large hand. My forehead bumps against his hat, and he yanks it down, tossing it onto the backseat. His hair flips forward, tickling my cheek. He smells like a long workday on the farm, and I try to imagine someone else’s stubble scraping my jaw.
Soon, he deepens the kiss, his tongue worming its way into my mouth. I like that he takes his time, unhurriedly exploring my taste until he feels confident enough to grab my hand and guide it to his groin. His dick already tents his jeans, and it jerks when I give it a squeeze. I still can’t bring myself to go further, though, so he takes matters into his own hands and opens his belt.
The snap of the buckle flicks a switch inside my brain, one that triggers the only memory that has the power to suffocate me.
‘I love you.’
Ross’ voice hollers inside my head, and I rip my lips from Jack’s with a gasp. He stills when I put my hand on his chest. Fuck.
“I can’t…”
“Seriously?”
“I’m sorry.”
Huffing, he drops his head against the headrest. “Let me guess… There’s another guy in the picture?”
I avert my gaze, pulling my hands back into my lap. “I can give you money.”
He utters a derisive chuckle before he leans over me to open my door. Without looking at me, he starts the engine. “Get out.”
I pout, close to calling him a few names, but then figure it wouldn’t be fair to him. After all, I didn’t stick to our bargain, so I mumble a sheepish thanks and hop out. As soon as I shut the door behind me, he shoots off with screeching wheels.
My shoulders droop as I watch him disappear into the night. The prick left me stranded in the middle of nowhere just because I refused to suck his dick.
Downcast, I slouch off toward the station. The bored dude behind the counter informs me that the next motel is about a mile farther down the road. Seeing as I’m too exhausted to walk back six miles again, I decide to get some sleep and ride back tomorrow.
I’ve been walking for about three minutes, dragging my feet over the curb with a full gas can dangling from my hand, when a truck comes my way only to make a U-turn in the middle of the street. My heart pummels into my stomach. I’m already about to bolt for fear of being hijacked or something when I recognize the vehicle. It’s Jack.
He leans over the passenger seat and opens the door. He doesn’t say anything, just jerks his head, gesturing for me to get in.
“Where you heading?” he asks gruffly when I hop inside and switches gears.
“To the next motel.”
He gets the truck into motion. We don’t exchange words for the rest of the ride and soon, he pulls over at the next motel coming into view. He glides the car into a parking spot and puts on the handbrake, leaving the engine running.
“That boyfriend of yours know where you’re staying tonight?” His gaze is on the motel’s neon sign buzzing in front of the entrance, his mouth moving as he munches on his chewing gum. “You might want to give him a call.”
I smack my lips. “There’s no boyfriend.”
His head swivels to me in response, a frown contorting his handsome features.
“It’s complicated,” I add to answer the question he hasn’t asked yet.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve got baggage, I get it.”
Now, it’s my time to frown. “What would you know about my baggage?”
Smirking, he sends me a bitch-please look. “Girl, you don’t want to tell me your name and carry a Glock underneath your waistband with an extra magazine hanging on your hip.”
I purse my lips, tearing my gaze away, but I can see him tilting his head in my periphery, analyzing me.
“Are you in danger?” he asks softly.
My silence gives him all the answer he needs.
His eyes flicker between mine before he nods to where my gun is hidden at the small of my back. “Do you know how to handle that thing?”
I scratch my nose. “Theoretically, yes.”
“So, you’ve never shot a single bullet.” A statement, not a question, but he’s still waiting for my confirmation.
Pinching my lips, I shake my head.
He sighs, fetches a pen from the center console, and grabs my hand. “You want to eighty-six somebody, you need to know what you’re doing.” He jots down a phone number on the back of my hand. “My father owns a shooting range not far from here. Give me a call.”
I drag my lip through my teeth, casting him a furtive glance. “You haven’t asked who my target is…”
He regards me
for a moment before he lifts his hand and traces a finger down my jaw.
“No, but I want you to catch it before it catches up to you,” he mumbles, erasing the distance between us and placing a brief kiss onto my lips. “And I’m going to make sure you hit dead center.”
9
Nathan
I knock back my fifth espresso at eight in the morning. Nonalcoholic, this time, without the standard shot of Amaretto. Figured it was smart not to kill my brain cells all at once and keep my six-pack for a little longer.
The caffeine overdose barely energizes me, but at least it keeps me from falling asleep right there on my desk. Sleeping pills don’t do the job anymore, and until I’ve found Ella, I doubt I’ll get any rest soon.
Banging down my empty espresso cup, I glance at the big, Ultra HD flatscreen TV installed on the opposite wall. I told Brooke I needed one for client presentations. Until now, I’ve only used it to watch the news. Every time they report a murder or a rape, I’m suffering a stroke, and every time they announce the victim’s name, I blow out a long, relieved exhale.
And still…
I’m ninety-nine percent sure that Luka won’t harm a hair on Ella’s head, but that doesn’t mean she’s safe. What if he kidnapped her without anyone knowing? What if he killed more of her dragonflies, scaring her to death? Hell, what if Ella is sick of it all and decides to put an end to this, sending a bullet into her own head?
The du-dum sound coming from my laptop announces an incoming email, and I drag my gaze back to the screen. Vincent is still in Vegas to seal another deal, and now, all his work lands on my desk. Brooke already gave me an earful for ‘leaving him in that damn city’ and not dragging him to the airport with me. As if I had any control over Vincent Crawford. I tried to pacify her and told her he wouldn’t do anything stupid, like rob a casino or something, but I have my doubts. I can only hope he’s not planning his next Ocean’s Eleven move.
My phone rings with an incoming call, and I pick it up from my desk. Unknown caller ID. Could it be Ella?
My heart makes a flic-flac, but I keep my voice neutral when I take the call.
“Nathan Crawford, hello?”
A train whooshing by and the sirens of an ambulance blare through the speaker before a monotone male voice responds, “It’s James.”
I straighten in my seat, fetching the remote control, and muting the TV. Just at that moment, someone knocks on the door, and Nick waltzes in. I motion for him to be quiet.
“You’ve got news?” I ask.
“I’ll send you a location,” is James’ short-cut reply. “Meet me in an hour.”
The line goes dead before I can utter a syllable, and just as I remove my phone from my ear, my screen lights up with a Google Maps link. Damn, that guy is terse, as if he’s got a daily quota of words he’s allowed to speak.
“Who was that?” Nick wants to know when I gawk at my phone.
“My only hope to find Ella.” I fling my phone onto my desk.
Nick slouches down in one of the two seats opposite me, his gaze swerving over the five empty espresso cups aligned on the edge of my desk.
“A friend at the NYPD?” he asks.
“No. A friend of Vincent.” He blinks at me, so I elaborate with, “A private investigator.”
More like an undercover agent for the US government, but I decide to keep this bit to myself.
Nick sends me a suspicious glance. “I don’t like these friends of Dad. They all seem to be connected to that fucking heist. They are a bad influence.”
I snort. “You sound like Brooke.”
“She’s got a point.”
“Vincent just did me a solid, is all.”
Not that I want to defend him, but without his connections to Wayde and James, I’d be at a dead end.
Nick purses his lips. “You don’t think he’s planning the next robbery?”
I heave a sigh. “God help me, but if he so much as pinches a dime, I’ll turn him in personally.”
“A spy?” Nick asks after a moment of silence. “I remember you saying you would never go that far.”
“I don’t have a choice,” is my somber reply. “We’ve got reason to believe that Luka didn’t heed our warning and came back. Ella is in danger, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to keep her out of harm’s way.”
He nods to my phone. “And that dude found her?”
“He didn’t say. I’m going to meet him now.”
“Before you go,”—he pulls out two velvet boxes and snaps them open—“which one should I put on Janice’s finger?”
Rapping my fingers against my thigh, I balance my gaze between the two rings. The left one is a 2.0 carat, round cut solitaire diamond in 18-karat yellow gold, the right one a platinum ring with a 1.8-carat, princess cut rock in a pavé setting. Both pretty, both sparkling, both expensive.
“That one.” I point to the ring in his right hand.
“Really? You’re sure I shouldn’t take the gold ring?”
“No,” I say curtly.
Nick furrows his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I slap my hands on my desk and rise from my chair. “It means that I can’t make this decision for you.”
I’m an asshole. No matter how hard I try, I can’t be impartial. Nick’s wedding is in two months, and I’ve been the opposite of helpful with the preparations. Every conversation about bridesmaids, flower arrangements, or guest lists makes me want to kick something. I want to be happy for him, but how can I feel joy when my heart is nothing but a chunk of worry, fear, and despair?
“Christ…” Nick huffs with a derisive chuckle, slamming the boxes shut and launching to his feet.
“Nick—” I start when he turns his back to me, but he just flips me the bird and marches out.
The pang of guilt only lasts one second before my attention reels back to my appointment with James, and I grab my things before I hurry out the door. I’ve left about thirty emails unanswered, but they will have to wait until later.
Just as I arrive at the elevator, the doors slide open and I glide inside. I check the envelope hidden in my breast pocket, quickly counting the bills. James will want the second half of his payment before he offers up anything, and, unsurprisingly, he only accepts cash.
Of course, he wanted information. Squeezed every drop of knowledge from me. Forced me to peel away all of Ella’s layers. Every snippet I handed him—what I knew about her life, her fears, her dreams—pricked my skin like a needle until it felt as if I were caged in an Iron Maiden torture device. He sucked me dry and listened without so much as a blink, filing it all away in his genius brain.
After our last meeting, I let Wayde do a background check on the mysterious James Burke, but as expected, the guy is a myth. No passport, no birth certificate, no records. It’s as if he never existed. Chances are James Burke isn’t even his real name, but he could call himself Lady Gaga for all I care, as long as he can deliver.
With purposeful strides, I cross the gallery and step out into the rain. It’s just a drizzle coming from the dark clouds above, but the wind lashes tiny drops of water against my cheeks. Women bump into each other with their umbrellas, afraid to ruin their perfect hairstyles, while I just rake a hand over my scalp, knowing my hair will look better than before. It’s not for nothing a model scout already asked me to become the next Garnier testimonial, but I see no reason to start posing for shampoo brands. I can sell a Harry Winston necklace and make more money than I would get for shooting fifty commercials.
Picking my way through the people crawling on the sidewalk, I head toward the Manhattan Bridge underpass. Pedestrians, cyclists, and skateboarders seek shelter in the tunnel as the drizzle turns into heavy rain, and soon water puddles on the ground, running in rivulets down the graffiti walls. I ignore the perplexed looks as I prance in my Hugo Boss attire over bird droppings and rotting cigarette butts. If I had it my way, I’d relocate this meeting to a place that doesn’t re
ek of mildew and urine, but I’m not calling the shots here.
I scan my surroundings, trying to spot a square jaw and sleeked back hair, but it’s only when I reach the end of the underpass that I notice a strange dude with a black hoodie leaning against a rusty pillar. The cloud of smoke hovering around him suggests he’s enjoying a cigarette as he looks out at the East River causing ripples in the wind.
I approach him with calculated steps, the hollow tock of my shoes ricocheting off the concrete walls as I halt next to him. He doesn’t acknowledge my arrival, just continues to chew on his lung cancer stem and stare off into space.
“You’ve got the cash?” is his way of greeting.
I inconspicuously pull the envelope from my breast pocket and hand it to him. He flicks his cigarette away, opens the envelope, and briefly feathers through the bills. When he’s assured that I haven’t lost my count, he folds it in half and shoves it into his jeans pocket.
“Did you find her?” I ask when impatience gets the better of me, keeping my voice low.
“I have,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. “She’s currently staying with her sister on Coney Island.”
My fists unclench, and I deflate like a balloon. Coney Island. Thank God, she’s still in New York. I already feared I had to fly to Russia and get her out of Siberia or something.
James’ gaze flickers over to me. “Did you know that Ella Jenkins wasn’t her maiden name?”
I scratch a spot on my chin. “I had a hunch.”
“Elenka Jendarov,” he reveals at last, and I briefly close my eyes as I soak up the letters. Finally, I’ve got her real name. “She changed it before she moved to the states to escape her stalker. She’s got a younger sister, Zoya, who lives with her wife, Holly Benson, in a small house on Coney Island. They both work at Holly’s tattoo parlor on Brighton Beach boulevard.”
My gaze turns inward as the puzzle pieces click together.
“What else?” I prompt, eager to learn more.
He rubs a hand over his stubble. “Her sister moved to the states early. Mommy got breast cancer and Daddy dearest cleared off before she took her last breath. Ella Jenkins got herself a new identity and hopped onto the next plane to New York the day after her mother died.”
