“Because you don’t leave witnesses behind.”
“We make certain there aren’t any witnesses,” he reiterated. “We’re careful to ensure no one innocent is ever a witness.”
“Unless they’re like me and can see into your head.”
He stroked a caress down the back of her hair. All that silky hair. Her braid was thick. He wrapped his hand around it, a peculiar, unfamiliar ache in his chest. “I don’t think there’s anyone like you in the world, baby.” He couldn’t keep the raw admiration out of his voice. The stark respect and desire. “The thing is this, I have to tell Czar the truth, and once I do, he could view you as a liability. Either way, I’m betraying you or the club.”
“Player, how can you be betraying me if we’re standing here together in front of these gates and you’re laying it out for me? You’re giving me this information because you know I can walk into that house and either text Jonas myself or ask Blythe to drive me straight to him. No one in the world will get me to believe that, even for her husband, she would commit murder or allow him to, not if she knew I was innocent.”
His woman. Intelligent. He nodded slowly. “That, and I want you to be aware that if I tell you we have to leave now, you don’t hesitate, you just come with me, no trying to argue, and we go. Your grandmother will be safe. The club would never hurt her. I have money stashed. I have ways to disappear, and I can put you somewhere safe while I try to fix this.” He slid his gloved thumb along her cheek. “I’m sorry I got you into this. None of this is your doing. You were just trying to help me out and you landed yourself in the middle of a huge mess.”
“Actually, you were helping me out. You kept me from getting kidnapped, remember? That’s why you got shot. Come on, let’s get this over with. You believe in this man. You’ve always looked up to him, and I did see his face when he was a child, watching over all of you, Player. He cares deeply. He’s protective. He actually loves you.”
“I know, baby, that’s what I’m afraid of.” Player reached out to run his fingers along her tightly woven braid, feeling the thick silk of it. Without warning, feelings welled up out of nowhere, intense, like a volcano. So unexpected. So powerful, shaking him.
“You know our relationship isn’t about sex, Zyah.”
Her long, thick lashes veiled the expression in her eyes, and she shook her head. “Don’t. We have to do this thing with Czar and worry about everything else later. I mean it. I can only concentrate on one thing at a time right now.”
He found himself smiling, his fingers on her stubborn little chin. Anat was so right. This woman was well worth fighting for, and he was going to fight with everything in him. He was a survivor. He’d fought every damn day of his life to survive. Being with Zyah meant surviving. Not because she would save his sanity, or because he’d have the best damn sex in the world, but because she made him happy. It was really that simple. He was better with her. And he hoped she would be better with him. His campaign was starting immediately, and thankfully, he had an entire club that would back him.
Leaning down, he rubbed her lips softly with his. The contact was barely there, but he felt it all the way to his toes. She was potent. They were potent. She was perfect. His. Their chemistry was off the charts, and electricity instantly arced between them, a bright, hot connection so strong he thought he could see little sparks dancing off their skin. Zyah hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then her arms slid around his neck and her body leaned into his. She simply surrendered, giving herself to him, her lips parting, letting him in, while dynamite detonated between them.
He let the explosive chemistry catch them both on fire and then deliberately gentled the kiss, keeping the heat, the flames, but introducing tenderness, something he’d never known with another human being. That foreign emotion felt as necessary to him as breathing, adding to the fire of their kiss, turning it into something he’d never expected. The heat rushed through his veins and settled in his groin, but at the same time, it took over his body, moving through him to encompass his heart, embedding there, digging deep, deeper still, until he swore she was in his soul.
She gasped, her hands sliding to his chest, palms applying pressure to try to separate them. Obediently but with great reluctance, he lifted his lips and leaned his forehead against hers. “You felt it. I know you did.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just go and get this over with. You’re getting tired. I am tired. I have to work tomorrow, and we’re keeping Blythe and Czar up,” she reminded.
Player gave in to the inevitable. He wasn’t going to repair the damage he’d done in one night. He’d held her at arm’s length due to his own stupidity. Now he had to make a confession to Czar and find a way to keep her, as well as his club, safe. Then, with Zyah, figure out just what was happening to him.
“Thanks for sticking with me,” he said as they once again got on the Harley. “Very few people would have.”
She wrapped her arms around him. “Very few people had Mama Anat as an example.”
Player knew that much was true.
* * *
Czar answered the door, his gaze moving over them, taking both of them in, seeing too much. It didn’t matter that Player had cultivated the mask that every club member had—no expression, flat, cold eyes—Czar knew him too well. He saw that he was stressed. He could read possession and the protective way Player kept Zyah close beneath his shoulder. Worse, the way he held himself, ready for trouble. That told Czar more than Player wanted him to know, but then Czar was president of Torpedo Ink because he had earned their respect for a lot of reasons.
“Cold tonight. Blythe has something hot for you, Zyah,” Czar greeted. “And a fire going in the other room. Let me take you to her.”
Player started to protest. He didn’t want them separated. Czar flashed him one look that stopped him cold. Zyah turned her face up to his. “A hot drink and a fire sound perfect, Player. And visiting with Blythe would be wonderful. I’ve heard so much about her. I’m sorry we came so late, Czar.”
“No worries, we’re used to the late hours,” Czar assured her as he led the way through the house to a room a few doors down.
Player had been to the house numerous times. This was the designated music room. It had a piano for the children to learn to play, as well as several other instruments. Blythe rose immediately as they entered. Player went to her and bent to brush a kiss on her cheek.
“I’m sorry we disturbed you so late, Blythe. This is Zyah.” He had his arm around her shoulders. “Zyah, Blythe. Blythe’s the heart of our club, baby. None of us knows why she puts up with us, but as you can see, she does, even when we disturb her in the middle of the night.”
Zyah flashed her gorgeous smile, and Player tightened his arm around her, proud of her. It took courage to be so gracious and calm knowing Czar was deliberately separating them.
“Blythe, I’m so happy to meet you.” Zyah’s tone was genuine. Happy. Perfection.
Player realized Zyah meant it. She had wanted to meet Blythe, and even under the tense circumstances, she was happy to do so.
“You are spoken so highly of by everyone who has met you, Zyah,” Blythe answered. “Come get warm while the men talk or do whatever it is they do. I’ll take good care of her, Player.” She brushed his cheek with her soft lips.
He didn’t want to leave Zyah. Anxiety hit him hard. He stood there in the middle of the music room, signs of Czar’s family everywhere, still feeling an underlying threat to his woman.
She tilted her face up to his, her dark chocolate eyes unafraid. “Take your time, honey. I’ll be enjoying myself, getting to know Blythe.” She went up on her toes and skimmed his lips with her own.
His heart nearly stopped beating. She was reassuring him. It should have been the other way around. He managed to give her a faint grin. “You get the easy, fun half. I’m talking to Czar, and he’s usually a gru
mpy bear.”
“Only because you interrupted my night with my woman,” Czar said. “Move it, Player.” He indicated the door, giving Player no choice other than to leave Zyah.
Player led the way back to the great room with its vaulted ceiling and wide-open space, Czar keeping pace behind him like a silent wraith. It was significant that Czar closed and locked the door. In the Prakenskii household, few doors were closed and fewer were locked. They had an open-door policy, even to the club members. The children came and went, easily rushing in when the adults were visiting. They were always welcome, and Czar had taught them they were welcome.
“What’s wrong, Player?” Czar said, seating himself in his favorite chair and waving Player to the chair across from him.
Player shook his head and began pacing across the room, adrenaline making it impossible to sit. Without Zyah to ground him, he realized the enormity of what he was doing. He glanced at the president of his club. Czar wasn’t just the president of the club. He was the man who had saved them. He was the one they believed in. His word was law. For the first time Player was hesitant about laying everything on the line. He’d always trusted in Czar, but then he’d never had anything to lose before—not like Zyah. He’d come to Czar’s home to tell him everything, but now he wasn’t so certain it was a good idea.
“You going to tell me why you’re here or you just going to wear a hole in my wife’s favorite carpet?” Czar asked.
“I don’t know exactly how to start.” That was the fucking truth. How was he supposed to tell this man he didn’t belong? He might have betrayed them all. Czar had a family. Blythe. The children. Three daughters. Two sons. Steele had a son. It wasn’t just the Torpedo Ink charter members at risk. It was all of them. The families.
He found, pacing back and forth on the very familiar carpet, that he knew those kids and Blythe had found their way into the circle that was his family—Torpedo Ink. He’d learned to feel for them when he thought himself incapable of feeling real emotions for anyone but his brothers and sisters. They were his as well. Now there was Zyah. Her grandmother. He was being overrun with emotion.
“Player.” Czar’s voice slipped into his low demand. “Brother. Talk to me now. You have something big on your mind. Tell me.”
“I’m not like the rest of you,” Player blurted out. “I never have been. All of you had such gifts, and you all made them count for something. Mine has been a fucked-up mess since the beginning. It’s getting worse. Sometimes I think I’m going insane.” He rubbed his pounding temples. He should have insisted Zyah stay with him. At least he could think straight if she was standing beside him. “This is bad, Czar. I’ve put your family in jeopardy. The club. Zyah. Everyone I care about.”
“Take a damn breath, Player. You got shot in the head and shouldn’t be on your feet this long. Steele said the injury was bad and you should be dead. Worse, he said he probably would have lost you. He told me the injury is healed but the migraines are worse than ever. Somehow, this woman has helped you with them, but he isn’t certain what she’s doing. I’m guessing a good part of this is wrapped up in Zyah. You need to give it to me one step at a time. Just sit in a fucking chair before you fall down, and start at the beginning. Start with the fucked-up mess.”
Czar sounded the same. Calm. Reasonable. In command. Player took the required breath and dropped into the chair opposite his president, suddenly grateful to be off his feet. He hadn’t realized how weak he felt.
He pressed a hand to his pounding head. “When we were kids, I recognized that all of you had psychic gifts. You had everyone practicing so they could contribute to our survival. I didn’t think I had one. It felt like I was the lone screwup, the person that everyone else had to carry.” He made the confession in a low voice.
Czar didn’t say anything. He never did. He wasn’t the type of man to interrupt unless it was for a good reason. He waited, giving Player the time to tell things his own way.
“Eventually, I realized I could create illusions. Small ones. It felt like a useless little parlor trick to me, and it was, in comparison to what everyone else could do. I’ve always hated casting illusions. What real good is it?”
Czar’s eyebrow shot up. “Are you asking that question for real? You remember things a little differently than I do, Player,” Czar said at his nod. “I remember you were nine years old and everything had gone to hell. Sorbacov was about to catch us red-handed. You threw a false image of a wall and door up, a perfect replica of the room, making it empty so we all could escape out the real door. You had to do that often. More than once. He never saw us. Never suspected. You were only nine and you held that illusion long enough for all of us to make it out. It wasn’t easy. I remember waiting to be last. Sweat was beaded on your forehead, running down your face. I signaled to you to get through the door and let the illusion collapse.”
Player nodded, his breath coming too fast. His chest hurt. He rubbed over his pounding heart. “But you didn’t see the aftermath.” His voice was very low. Ashamed. Guilt-ridden. I never told you what happens after.”
Czar’s gaze instantly locked onto his face. “What happens after, Player?”
Player swallowed down bile. He wanted to look away from those piercing eyes. Czar could always see people for who they were. He could see into souls. Why hadn’t he seen all the blood on Player’s soul?
“If I hold the illusion too long, past the point where my brain can manage, reality begins to intrude. An alternate reality. In that case, I saw Sorbacov turn his head and look at us just before we went through the door. My head was pounding. We made it down to the dungeon. All of you were celebrating, but I was still locked into that place and I couldn’t get out of it. It had happened to me before, more than once, and I knew it could be dangerous. I didn’t want to bring him down there, to see everyone, even if it would be under slightly different circumstances.”
Czar hitched forward, steepling his fingers, clearly trying to understand. “Keep going.”
Player searched for the right words, trying to make Czar see the very real dangers. “Whatever is happening in the illusion is just an illusion, like the wall. But in the reality, that shit is the real deal. If Sorbacov is present, if someone has a gun, those things are real. That night, Sorbacov was angry that he didn’t catch us in the act, and he was certain we were the ones who had killed that bloated pig of an instructor.”
“He came down to the dungeon to check on us,” Czar said. “We knew he would. We had everything in place. Code had the cameras working, appearing as if nothing had interrupted them. I remember looking at you, and you were definitely stressed. Covered in sweat. Very unusual for you.”
“Because the reality was something I could barely control.”
Czar shook his head. “We knew he would come down to check on us.”
“Think back, Czar. That’s not true. Sorbacov wasn’t supposed to be there that night. That’s the reason you put the green light on killing Matrix.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Matrix had a huge fight with the math teacher that morning. Every one of the other teachers knew about it. No one was going to blame a bunch of kids who were so torn up we could barely move. That’s what you’d said to us.”
It was Czar’s turn to get up and pace across the room. “You’re right. Sorbacov had a big meeting to go to that night. We targeted Matrix because he had already hurt so many of the girls in the school and he was looking at Alena and Lana. We knew it was only a matter of time before he went after them.” Czar turned to look at him. “Why is it I didn’t remember that, Player, when I never forget details?”
“It was very real, Czar. Sorbacov really did come down to confront us. Code really did fix the cameras to cover us. I made certain of it. I orchestrated it in my reality.”
“That’s why you kept Sorbacov’s attention on you.”
Player nodded slowly. “It was my fuckup and my mistake to fix.
I could have gotten all of you killed.”
“Instead, he took you to his rooms and returned you in the worst shape I’d ever seen you in,” Czar said and slumped down in the chair, scrubbing both hands over his face.
There was a small silence. “I build bombs in my head when things get too crazy for me. It’s a harmless pastime, like counting for other people,” Player said. “At least, it started out that way. I’ve always done it. When Sorbacov would give me to his friends, I’d lose myself in my head by building the bombs. I’d just go there, and sometimes by the time I’d built several, it would be over. I wouldn’t even remember how many he’d given me to or how many times someone beat me with a whip. I just built the bombs.”
Czar waited, his piercing gaze once more jumping to Player’s face.
“When this happened to me”—Player indicated the bandana covering the wound on his head—“my brain was really fractured. I started having nightmares. Then I have an illusion. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. You know how much I despise that illusion and why. That’s when the alternate reality creeps in. I am always sitting on that little bench Sorbacov would make me sit on when he’d lay the materials out on the table and press his pocket watch. At first it would be the White Rabbit there. Then Sorbacov. I’d be putting together the bomb. Only it wasn’t a bomb I’d ever put together before. I didn’t recognize the materials or the way it was supposed to be put together.”
“Steele healed your injury.”
“But the migraines have persisted. They’ve gotten worse, and so have the nightmares. With the nightmares come the illusions.” He rubbed his forehead and met Czar’s eyes, showing him it wasn’t a joke. This was very real and dangerous. “The thing is, I see in patterns, Czar. I can look at things, at the materials, and I just know how they work. I began to build a bomb even though I’d never seen that type before. Sorbacov was always shadowy. At first, I was slow and didn’t finish. Zyah would come in and stop the entire process. She has a tremendous talent, and she puts my mind back together, so to speak. She stays with me the rest of the night and the nightmare doesn’t come back.”
Reckless Road Page 25
