Shiver

by Suzanne Wright

  Standing to the side near a concrete pillar, arms folded across his chest, was Blake. He watched the spectacle, face utterly blank. And I suddenly felt very, very cold.

  I couldn’t move. Seemed rooted to the spot. It wasn’t that I was shocked by the violence itself. I’d grown up in a shitty neighborhood where gangs routinely fought over territory, drive-by-shootings occurred on a monthly basis, and there were drug dealers galore. I’d seen people get a beating before. Violence was a way of life there. Hell, I’d had close and personal contact with it. No, what rolled my stomach was Blake’s dispassionate expression. He could have been watching paint dry.

  There was no emotion in the way that the men beat at the guy on the floor either. It all just seemed so … callous.

  Still, maybe I wouldn’t have felt quite so ill if it wasn’t for the jagged knife in Blake’s hand.

  For just a moment, I was in another parking garage, looking at a different knife; a place where the buzzing lightbulb had flickered above me as I’d heard footsteps on the cement close behind me; where I’d smelled exhaust, road salt, smoke … and my own fear.

  And I panicked.

  Despite how much I downplayed that night to everyone—hell, I downplayed it to myself—I’d been very afraid. My heart had jumped at the light glinting off the knife; my chest had tightened painfully as I felt the tip of the blade dig into the skin just under my jaw.

  And as I stood there now … it was like I just stopped thinking. Just watched and listened, completely still. Watched the men snap out their legs or ram their boots into the carpet-covered man on the pavement; watched him jerk and flinch and wriggle. Heard his pained grunts, pleas for them to stop, and the thud of their boots slamming into him.

  Throughout it all, Blake’s expression didn’t change. Not even a little bit. The most disturbing thing was that the knife looked … right in his hand. The violence fit him.

  He must have felt the weight of my gaze, or maybe I’d made some sort of sound, because his eyes suddenly snapped to me. He stiffened, and something close to unease flashed in his eyes.

  “Kensey,” said Blake in a smooth, calming tone. It was also a warning not to move. He held up his hand and barked, “Enough.”

  His men stopped and turned toward him. I realized that I knew two of the four—Rossi and Greg. Spotting me, Rossi winced while Greg mumbled a curse.

  “Get him out of here,” Blake ordered without looking at them.

  They immediately scooped the carpet-covered guy off the floor and dumped him into the back of a black van. I distantly registered that Rossi and Greg rounded the building while the others drove away, the rumble of the motor echoing in the garage. My attention was mostly on Blake, who’d yet to move—as if I was a cornered wild animal that he was wary of spooking.

  Common sense told me to run. We were alone. He had a knife. He’d just stood by, emotionally unmoved, while his men dispassionately beat up another guy. But I didn’t act on common sense even half as often as I should, and I didn’t do it then either.

  “Kensey,” he said softly. He took a step toward me, and I drew back.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’d never hurt you.” He only then seemed to realize he was holding the blade. He swore and dumped it on the ground. “That prick roofied a girl’s drink and almost managed to drag her out of the club. He had that fucking knife in his jacket. It’s safe to say that good things wouldn’t have happened to that girl if he got her away from here.”

  The tight feeling in my chest got worse, because I could imagine exactly what would have happened to her. “Have you called the police?”

  Blake took two slow steps toward me. “I have my own way of taking care of things. The members here know that.”

  “They know that they might get wrapped in a carpet like a warped sausage fucking roll?”

  “She didn’t want to report the incident. Said she didn’t want it to go public for reasons she wouldn’t share. You would have preferred that I let him walk with no consequences?” He correctly took my silence as a ‘no’ and stepped forward again. “She was only twenty-one, Kensey. He would have hurt her. He either planned to hold that knife at her throat while he raped her, or he meant to cut her.”

  Inwardly, I flinched. I knew what the burn of the knife felt like as it sliced through skin like butter.

  “Even if I’d called the police against her wishes, the bastard has the kind of money that means he’ll never have to see the inside of a prison cell.” Blake took another step forward; there was only a small space between us now. “You saw this in me, baby. You knew I was no choir boy or a stranger to violence.”

  I gave a hesitant nod, because he was right. I’d seen the danger on day one. As he stood there, I could see what he was waiting for; what he was expecting from me. Judgment. Condemnation. Rejection. And dumb as it might be, I really didn’t want to hurt him. I had the feeling that enough people had already done that.

  My gaze ping-ponged around, looking at anything but him … and involuntarily landed on the ugly blade that was lying on the cement.

  “Look at me, Kensey. Baby, look at me.”

  Finally, I did. And I saw understanding dawn on him.

  “It was the knife, mostly, wasn’t it? It sent you to another place for just a minute, didn’t it?” His voice gentled. “Ah, baby, I’d never hurt you.”

  The thing was … I believed him. “The night I was almost mugged … it happened in a parking garage.”

  His eyes briefly fell shut. “Fuck.” He blew out a breath. “I’m going to come to you now, Kensey.” And then he was holding me, one hand splayed on my back while the other curved around my nape. He kissed my temple. “I’m sorry you saw that. I am. But I’m not sorry he’s in a world of pain right now.”

  Honestly, neither was I.

  Pulling back, he whispered his lips over mine. “We’ll go talk in my office, where we’ll have some privacy.” He squeezed my nape. “I just need to move that knife first. Can’t leave it there.”

  I waited as he grabbed it from the floor, opened the trunk of his car, pulled out a black plastic bag and shoved the knife inside it. Then he tossed the bagged blade in the trunk and slammed the hood closed.

  Even as a part of me insisted I was pathologically stupid, I let him then lead me back into the Vault, across the dance floor, and up a small flight of iron steps. As we stepped inside his office, the first thing that snared my attention was the framed aquarium on the wall that could be easily mistaken for a media screen. The soft carpet was a few shades lighter than the shark-skin gray walls. The large space might have been dull if it weren’t for the backlit shelving displays, ceiling spotlights, potted plants, and the bright neon colors of the aquarium.

  The white leather sofas near the tinted window overlooking the main floor matched the two office chairs near the desk. To my surprise, the black marble surface was obsessively neat. No stray pens or papers or mail. The stationery, laptop, printer, and phone were all perfectly positioned and dust-free. Whoever kept this place tidy and smelling of lemons was as much of a neat freak as I was.

  The office was stylish and impressive—no doubt about it. But it had no real personality. There were no pictures, knickknacks, or even sticky notes. Nothing that reflected the persona of the man who was now leading me to the chair in front of his desk.

  “Sit,” he said gently. As I sank into the buttery leather seat, he positioned himself directly in front of me and leaned back against his desk. “You’re a tough girl, Kensey. Any other woman might have freaked the fuck out and ran away screaming.”

  “Would you have cut him with the knife?”

  He looked insulted by the question. “No.”

  “Why roll him up in a carpet?”

  “So that there’s no mess.” Blake adjusted his tie. “He’ll be dumped outside a hospital, which is more than the bastard deserves.” He reached out and stroked my hair. “Again, I’m sorry you saw it. Why did you come outside looking for me? Curious about m
y call?”

  “No, I—” I closed my eyes and groaned. “Shit, this is all so fucked up.”

  Blake crouched in front of me. “Baby, I can understand why this would hit you hard. You already have a sociopath in your life; you don’t need more dark shit. But I’m not some kind of soulless fuck-up, Kensey. Me and my men don’t beat people up for shits and giggles; it’s not fun for us.” He gripped my chin, pinning my gaze with his. “I’d never harm a single hair on your head. You might not feel able to believe this right now, but you’re never safer than when you’re with me.”

  I couldn’t say the same for him. Not when I’d brought Ricky Tate into his life. The asshole might not necessarily be a physical danger to Blake, but he was still a major fucking problem that could disrupt his life, especially if I insisted on staying in said life.

  “I mean it, Kensey. You’re safe with me.”

  “I wouldn’t have come up here with you if I thought differently. But this, us, has to end now.”

  His eyes glittered and a muscle ticked in his cheek. “Kensey.”

  “It’s not because of what happened out there.” I thrust a hand through my hair. “I didn’t think that his attention would move to you. I swear, I didn’t. It was bad enough that he followed you around and took pictures of you with your stepsister, the redhead, and your nephew. He sent them to me.” I licked my lips. “He called me while I was in the basement. Told me to come outside and see why you’re not for me.”

  Blake swore. “The reporter. He was watching.” He whipped out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and put it to his ear. “Do a scan around the club and check all the cameras, see if anyone’s loitering around. If there is someone, nab them.” His gaze cut to me. “No, she’s with me … She’s fine … I will.” With that, he ended the call.

  “It really didn’t occur to me that he’d focus on you, I’m sorry.”

  Blake snorted. “You think I give a shit about a reporter? It’s clear he doesn’t want me in your life. Why?”

  “He’s not a reporter.” I took a centering breath. “His name is Ricky Tate. He’s a twisted fuck who believes that he’s Michael Bale’s biological son. He hates me. Sometimes he sees me as an imposter. Other times I’m his sister stealing all the attention. I haven’t heard from him in years. But recently …”

  “Recently, what?”

  The last thing I wanted to do was offload it on him, but he’d been brought into this now. He had every right to know exactly what he was dealing with. “First, he wrote a dumb story about me on an online writer’s community. A story based on my life. A story in which I died during the mugging two years ago.”

  Blake’s hands clenched around the arms of my chair. “What would possibly inspire him to fuck with you by writing a story?”

  I hesitated, biting my lip. “I’m trusting you with something big here. Bigger than even this Ricky mess. Something you can’t share.”

  He rubbed my thighs. “Okay. What is it?”

  I took a deep breath … and figuratively jumped. “I self-publish books under a penname. Horror books. Somehow, Ricky found out about it. He emailed me, posing as a fan, and included a link for a review he’d supposedly written on my book. Only there was no review. He wanted me to find that story he’d written. He was taunting me with what he knew.”

  “The feather quill tattoo makes sense now. If you’re self-publishing books, I’d say you do more than ‘dabble,’ but we’ll get to that later. Now, what else has the bastard done?”

  “He’s been inside my apartment.”

  Blake’s jaw hardened. “While you were out or while you were there?”

  “Both.”

  He viciously swore. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? Did he hurt you?”

  “No, he didn’t touch me. I didn’t even know he was there until much later. It only happened once.”

  “You didn’t see him, but you know for sure this person is Ricky Tate?”

  “Yes. I saw footage of him lingering outside CCC, watching the bar.” I absently rubbed at my arm. “I got myself a decent alarm system, and he went quiet. I thought maybe he was trying to lull me into a false sense of security so that I’d stop being so vigilant. But it turns out he’s been spending some time watching you.”

  “And he was obviously looking for a way to make you get rid of me.” Blake scraped his hand over his jaw. “If his story ended with your death, he must want you dead.”

  “He says he doesn’t.”

  “But you don’t believe him,” Blake sensed.

  “No, I don’t. But I believe that he just doesn’t have the stomach to kill me himself. He’s had opportunities to hurt me, but he didn’t. Hell, he videoed me in the shower with my own goddamn phone, Blake. I found the footage.”

  There was a deathly silence. “Repeat that.”

  “Going by the look on your face, I’m not sure I should.”

  Blake ground his teeth so hard it was audible. “Have you told Bale about this?”

  “Yes. At first, I thought that maybe this wasn’t really about me. Ricky’s obsessed with him. I wondered if Ricky was only doing this shit in the hope that I’d tell Michael, in which case he’d then get what he ultimately wants—Michael’s attention. But the longer this has gone on and the more things that Ricky has done, the more I’m thinking it’s not just a ploy for attention.”

  Blake slowly and smoothly rose to his feet. “Who else knows about this?”

  “My mom, Sarah, Sherry, Dodger, and Cade.”

  His eyes flashed. “You trusted Cade with this, but not me.”

  I almost rolled my eyes. “It’s not about trust. I didn’t want to bring others into my problems. Jesus, Blake, you’re in no position to judge me for keeping things to myself.”

  His mouth snapped shut. Well, it wasn’t like he could argue with that, was it? But I could tell that he really, really wanted to. “Here’s what I’m going to do.”

  I raised a brow. “You want to help?”

  “You thought this would scare me off? That’s insulting.”

  “Not scare you. But I did figure you wouldn’t want this crap in your life.”

  “I don’t want it in your life. I’ll find Ricky Tate, and I’ll have a chat with him.”

  Somehow, I didn’t think that he meant ‘chat’ in the literal sense of the word. It was more like he’d curse the son of a bitch while beating the living shit out of him. And I found that I was too upset and pissed off to care. “Cade already tried to find him. He couldn’t.”

  “There are many ways to find people. I will find him. This will be dealt with.” Blake took my hands and gently pulled me to my feet. “I know it was hard for you to share this with me, so thank you.” He kissed me. “And thank you for not freaking out on me and running.”

  “You would have just come after me.”

  “You’re right; I would have.” There was a knock on the door, and Blake sighed. “Come in.”

  I expected Rossi or Greg. My muscles tensed when none other than the redhead walked inside. This really wasn’t my night at all.

  She beamed at him. “Hi, Blake, I—” Her eyes widened at the sight of me. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she told him. “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone. You don’t usually bring women up here.”

  Blake slipped a proprietary arm around me. “Kensey, this is Tara, a friend. Tara, this is Kensey; she’s mine.”

  Tara’s brows flew up so high they almost hit her hairline. I couldn’t be sure if Sarah was right that Tara had been to the bar to check me out—nothing about her was plucking at my shit memory. But even if she’d already known who I was before Blake introduced us, she clearly hadn’t expected him to state that I was his. Her shock was utterly genuine.

  Quickly recovering from said shock, she came toward me with a breezy smile. “It wasn’t nice of him to keep you a secret, was it? Wow, you have really beautiful eyes.”

  I blinked, thrown. “Um, thanks.”

  Her gaze slid back to Blake. “I ha
ve an update for you, but it can wait. Call me tomorrow. We can have lunch or something. I’ll give Bastien a holler and let him know about it.” She nodded at me, a speculative glint in her eyes. “It was good to meet you, Kensey.”

  I couldn’t decide if she meant it or not. Nonetheless, I said, “You, too.” When the door closed behind her, I looked up at Blake. “I take it the update is related to the project you, her, and Bastien are working on.”

  “It is.”

  Okay, his evasiveness pissed me off right then. I’d just revealed a fuck of a lot to him, and he was still locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

  “There are things—”

  “You can’t tell me. Right.” I narrowed my eyes. “But I have to wonder if the truth is that you just don’t want to tell me.”

  He didn’t say anything. Just stared down at me. And I knew I was right.

  “Our project … let’s just say that the three of us have a common enemy and we’ve banded together to take care of it. That’s as much as I’ll say, Kensey. I told you, I don’t want my shit touching you.”

  “But you don’t care if it touches Tara.”

  “Tara’s not mine,” he said simply, as if that made her someone else’s problem or something. “She knows about it because it’s linked to her brother’s suicide.”

  “Have you ever—” I gave a quick shake of the head. “Forget it.”

  “No, I haven’t slept with Tara,” he said, correctly guessing what my question would have been. “She’s no more my type than I am hers. Trust me when I say she’s far more likely to be tempted by you than by me.”

  My mouth almost dropped open. “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  I bit my lip. “Are you ever going to take me down to B3?”

  His face blanked. “No.”

  “What happens down there?”

  “Not more sex, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  I had in fact wondered if some heavier BDSM activity went on down there. “Is it something illegal?”

  “It’s nothing terrible, Kensey. Really. But it’ll make you ask questions I’m not ready to answer. Questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.”