“Are we really arguing about this?”
Yes, we fucking are, and no, it doesn’t make sense. I’m acting like a jealous little bitch over Cole Torian’s sister. “I’m here to protect you in whatever way necessary.”
“And I appreciate that, officer, but you can cut the crap when it comes to anyone not wielding a gun.”
I grind my teeth and focus on the road, wishing the asphalt would open up and swallow me whole. “It’s the lack of sleep,” I growl. “And I’m fucking hungry.”
She snickers. “Don’t worry. I get it.”
No, she doesn’t. She has no clue I’d love to whisk her away from this shit, like a badass Prince Charming. But I’m still not sure if she needs to be saved. Or wants to be, for that matter.
“You can pull back onto the main road. I’m done.” She tugs at the front of her shirt and grins. “All censored for your approval.”
“Not funny.” I turn the car around and take the fastest route back to the diner.
“Come on.” Her grin turns to a smirk. “You’ve gotta admit it’s a little funny.”
“Nope. Unless you want me waving my dick around in public to distract attention from you, let’s agree to keep our clothes on.”
She presses her lips tight, her chest vibrating with silent laughter. “Who says I’d be opposed to you taking your clothes off?”
Fuck. Me.
The last thing I need right now is more complication. Increased temptation. I still have the crystal-clear recollection of her in the shower last night.
Half-naked.
Wet.
Vulnerable.
“For the sake of your brother not killing me, I’m going to take that as a fucking cruel joke.”
“Okay.” Her laughter fades as she grabs a pair of black flip-flops from the bag and slips them on. “For the sake of my brother not killing you, I’ll pretend I was joking.”
Jesus.
I cling to the steering wheel while I drive to the diner, then park the car and reclaim my shirt. Seconds later I’m striding inside, her soft footfalls following behind me.
I don’t face her until we reach the counter. Even then it’s hard not to stake a claim on all the perfection that Chevy-driving asshole was trying to visually violate. “Can you order me whatever you’re having, along with enough food to take home for the rest of the day?” I hand over my wallet. “I’ve gotta make some calls.”
“Okay…” She frowns. “Sure.”
“You’re going to be fine on your own for five minutes, aren’t you?”
“I think I can handle it.” She stares up at the billboard menu. “But don’t be too long. I might get bored and start stripping for tips.”
I scowl, pissed off that the creative side of my brain can conjure up a visual faster than I can form a comeback.
I don’t even bother replying. There’s no point. The gray matter swirling around in my skull has the consistency of butter as I stalk from the building, her soft chuckle haunting my every step. I continue to the far end of the parking lot and pull out my cell, quickly switching the sim cards to make a private call I’ve been dreading.
“Hey, baby, I was wondering when you’d get in contact.” Anissa’s voice is sickeningly sweet.
“I’ve been busy.” I glance back at the diner, too paranoid not to look over my shoulder.
“So I’ve heard. Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. But I won’t be back this afternoon. I can’t catch up today.”
There’s a beat of tense silence. “This is the second time you’ve cancelled our plans.”
“I’m sorry, it can’t be helped.” I’m not sorry and she knows it, but it’s a part of the game we play. She acts sweet and innocent while I pretend to give a fuck.
“You’re with someone.” She drops the saccharine from her tone. “Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Bullshit,” she snaps, revealing the bitch she hides beneath this pathetic act. “You know it does. Tell me.”
“I’ve warned you before, Nissa. Don’t hound me.”
“And I’ve warned you. Don’t fuck with me.”
I should’ve walked away from her months ago. I still should, if only I didn’t need her, and she didn’t need me, too. We’ve got a unique relationship based on threats and lies. Smoke and mirrors.
She isn’t the drug I crave. But she’s the dealer. The gatekeeper.
“Fine. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” She bottles her anger. “I know who you’re with. It’s not hard to figure out.”
“Then I hope you also know you can trust me.”
Her derisive laugh is barely audible over the passing traffic. “I doubt that, but I’ve got hope. And a backup plan if you fuck me over.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Anissa is nothing if not entirely strategic. I’ve always been well aware of what she’s capable of, and I got involved with her anyway. “I won’t.”
I can’t.
Despite her poison, this woman is a necessity in my life.
“Good. Be smart, Decker. We’re great together. The last thing you want to do is mess it up.”
7
Keira
Breakfast arrives while Decker is still outside, on his second phone call.
I wait a few minutes, watching him, trying to decipher the meaning behind his rigid stance and straight shoulders. He hid his face from view for most of his conversations, playing with the device between calls, if the hustle in his arms was anything to go by. But even with his back to me, I can tell he’s restless.
On edge.
A few clicks further along the agitated path he’d been on while I undressed in the car.
I slide to the side of the booth, preparing to go outside and rescue him from himself, when he pockets his cell and makes his way across the parking lot to come inside.
I watch his approach, noticing his anxiety dissipate the closer he gets.
He’s comfortable around me.
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” he says as he slides into the other side of the booth.
“That’s okay.” I push his opened wallet toward him, his license on display. “Sebastian Decker.” I let his name curl around my tongue and play along with the life outlined in the identification, even though I’m well aware the men who surround me on a daily basis have fake IDs and equally fake personas. The thing is, I’ve never cared before. Not until now, when I itch to know Decker’s truth. I crave it more than my own safety. “I never would’ve guessed you were a California baby.”
“I wasn’t. I only spent a few years there before I came to Portland.” He ignores the wallet and grabs his cutlery to start attacking his meal. “Did you enjoy snooping?”
“I didn’t snoop. You gave me your wallet to pay.” I take a bite of toast and wait until he meets my gaze. “And I didn’t think your identity was a secret.”
“It’s not.” He pushes the wallet back toward me. “Have at it. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
His transparency is comforting. I’m almost tempted to believe him.
“Was that Cole on the phone?”
He nods. “Yeah. I’m supposed to pass on the message that there’s money in the office safe if you need it. Apparently, you should know where it is, along with the combination.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I didn’t contemplate what goodies could be stashed in my father’s office. But I should’ve. My head isn’t screwed on, and it damn well needs to be. “Did you speak to Hunter, too?”
“No.” He fills his mouth with a forkful of food, the momentary transparency suddenly clouded.
I can’t fight the growing curiosity. “Who did you speak to on the second call?”
“A friend.” He meets my gaze, the connection seeming forced. “I had to cancel some plans.”
I’m guilty of overanalyzing, I know that, and now is no exception. I judge every aspect of his expression—the faux calm,
the playful eye contact.
“You had to cancel plans with a friend from the other side of the parking lot?”
He forks more food, chews, and takes the time to contemplate his response. “It was a woman, Keira.”
“Oh.” My shock bubbles free. At least that explains why he didn’t act on the lust I’d seen in his eyes last night. Of course he’s got women clambering for a piece of him. The world wouldn’t make sense if he didn’t.
“Your girlfriend?” I hedge.
A slow smile spreads across his lips. A taunting grin. “A friend.”
“A friend you sleep with.” It’s not a question. Intuition already has my mind made up.
“You’re awfully inquisitive this morning, poppet.”
I shrug, unwilling to deny the obvious. “We’re spending a lot of time together. It’s only natural we get to know each other, right?”
“If that’s the case, let’s talk about you for a while.”
My pulse hikes at the diversion. I can’t help the unease that strikes when people try to get to know me. But unease is better than jealousy. Especially when caused by someone who could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “Okay. I can handle that.”
The conversation eases into lighter territory as we eat. He asks me where I went to school—homeschooled. He attempts to guess my hobbies, my likes and dislikes.
Strangely enough, he isn’t too far off the mark. He’s noticed how I favor champagne over spirits, and my taste in music. He’s paid me far more attention than I’ve paid him, and I thought I’d watched from the shadows quite well.
A lot of time passes while we talk, our plates being cleared long ago, when I finally realize the dark smudges under his eyes. He’s practically the living dead, his lack of sleep becoming more obvious in his features.
“Come on, sugar tits.” I slide from the booth and jerk my head toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Sugar tits?” He snorts.
I grab our takeaway food from the table and lead the way outside into the morning sun. “You’re always calling me stupid names. It’s my turn now.”
“I’d never call you sugar tits.”
“How do you know you haven’t already?”
“I’d remember.” He unlocks the Porsche and stands at the hood, watching me as I walk to the passenger side.
“How?”
“Because I know, for a fact, I’ve never referenced your tits like that.”
I snort out a laugh. “Because you’re such a gentleman?”
“Fuck no.” He stalks to the driver’s door and stares at me over the roof of the car. “Because your tits are beyond description, and I’d never devalue them with an endearment like that.”
My cheeks heat.
Seriously, I’m goddamn blushing at his weirdly flattering compliment. “Right…” I open my door, and he follows me as I slide inside. “I guess now is a good time to bring the conversation back to your girlfriend.”
“I told you I don’t have one, gummy bear.” He starts the ignition and shoots me a glance. “But my imaginary girlfriend sounds like she’d be a point of contention if she existed.”
I clear my throat. “I think we’ve gone too far down this garden path, don’t you?”
He snickers. “Yeah, I guess we have.”
He pulls from the parking lot and turns toward Westport.
“Aren’t you going to get some new clothes first?”
“Fuck.” His head flops forward in exhaustion before he focuses back on the road. “No. I can’t. I’m seconds from crashing.”
“I’ll help. It won’t take long.”
“Seriously, I can’t. I’m dead on my feet.” He glances my way, his brows pinched as he takes me in. “Do you need to get something else before we head home?”
Yes, I do. I have to stop playing around in this fake, flirty dream-state and get my hands on a burner phone.
I need to determine my suspicions about last night’s shooter, preferably before my brother does. But telling Sebastian will leave me open to scrutiny I’m not ready for.
“It’s nothing that can’t wait.” The lie curdles in my belly.
I don’t know how much time I have up my sleeve. It could be days. Hours. Any minute now, Cole could find out who’s responsible, and I’m sure his reaction will only put our family in more danger.
“You sure?”
I nod despite my unease. I’ll have to figure out another way. “Take us home, captain.”
He shoots me a grin and drives back to the safe house.
Once we arrive, he ushers me inside through the garage entry, still playing the protector role as he carries my shopping bags inside.
“I’ll only need a few hours. Wake me if you’re worried about anything.”
“I won’t need to.” I take my new clothes from him. “I’ll be too busy sorting these out.”
“Enjoy.” He winks and strides toward the other end of the house, disappearing into one of the bedrooms.
For the next thirty minutes, I waste time taking tags off clothes, then trying them on. He bought me enough to fill a wardrobe. There are sun dresses, jeans, a cardigan, ballet flats, and that’s without mentioning all the skimpy lace underwear.
He must have spent a fortune, and the debt doesn’t sit well with me for numerous reasons.
For starters, he still confuses me. I can’t pin him down, not his thoughts or his actions. He’s too kind. Too protective. Too…
He’s just too much for me to believe at the moment.
I walk into the laundry and check the cupboards for detergent, finding what I need stashed in an almost bare cupboard beside an unopened bottle of fabric softener. I shove my clothes into the washing machine, not really paying attention as I become distracted by dreamy thoughts that have no place in my life.
Sebastian isn’t real.
He’s another illusion.
A flawless actor.
But what if he wasn’t?
I put the washing machine to work and can’t help going in search of his resting place. The least I can do is wash his clothes. Well, that’s the reason I give myself for tiptoeing down the hall in search of him.
I find him in the furthest room, in the same position he had on the sofa last night, his arm covering his face, his chest on display. I can’t help wondering what lies beneath the cream sheet draped over his hips. Boxers? Briefs? Full-frontal nudity?
I creep forward, becoming hypnotized by the allure of the tattoos etched across muscled skin. The woman on his bicep tracks my movements, her tear-streaked cheeks squeezing at my chest.
The designs speak of damage. Heartache and pain. Brutality and beauty.
I step closer, to the side of the bed, and listen to his breathing. Deep in. Heavy out. Rhythmic. Calm. Controlled.
Even in sleep, he’s fascinating. Despite the rumors and speculation, contrary to the secrets I know he keeps and the danger of the fake, fake, fake, his intrigue still holds me captive.
I tilt my head, taking in every inch of visible flesh. There are no defensive marks on his body. No wounds or scars. His skin is innocent apart from the ink defining his emotional injuries. But is his soul equally pristine?
It kills me not knowing.
He grunts, and I hold my breath. Freeze.
I wait for him to wake, but thankfully he doesn’t stir.
Slowly, I inch back, lifting his clothes from the floor—the suit pants, shirt, and socks. I leave his jacket where it is, unwilling to test my novice washing skills on something that should probably be dry cleaned. Then I make my way back to the laundry and place his clothes with mine.
It seems intimate—his socks tangling with my underwear and dresses. It also seems wrong. Like I’ve taken this a step too far. And no, it’s not just about the mingled clothing.
I’m faltering.
Sometimes this friendly, flirty act hasn’t been an act at all.
It’s real. There’s truth in this charade.
I close the lid on t
he washing machine harder than I should and promise myself to leave the bitter taste of romance behind.
I change my focus to something safer—scavenging through each room of the house. I find new toothbrushes and paste in the main bathroom, and put them to use immediately. There’s toilet paper, soap, deodorant, and tissues. Blankets are in the hallway cupboard. Fresh sheets and additional pillows, too.
I eat half a sandwich for lunch, but it’s not because I’m hungry. I’m delaying the inevitable stroll through my father’s office, which I can’t put off any longer.
I drag my feet down the hall, toward the memories that are far from fond, and stop in the entry to rest my shoulder against the frame.
This room is the only part of the house untouched by renovations. No doubt it was from my father’s demands. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone in his personal space. He never did.
Even though he hasn’t been here for a long time, his presence lingers close, grazing my skin with its rough texture. He used to sit behind that large oak desk, his frown tight, his annoyance at being interrupted always evident.
His tightly guarded love and affection only dissipated once my mother died. It’s as if she took it with her—all his softness, all the care. But then again, he was never truly caring to begin with.
I suck in a deep breath and walk inside, taking in the stocked bookshelves, running my fingers over the criminal biographies and psychology texts.
I ignore the threat looming ahead and keep my gaze trained on the furniture, letting the memories creep into my mind as I approach the desk.
Cole was the only child welcomed in here. When he was little, I’m told he would sit and play in the corner while my father worked. He was always a part of the family business, even before he could contemplate what all the conversations meant.
He didn’t need to become desensitized to the brutality because he grew up on the severity. It was always his world.
In contrast, Layla and I were drip fed. We didn’t understand a lot of it until later. Much, much later when we had no choice but to come to terms with reality and make it work in our favor.
Decker Page 7
