by Nicole Fox
He’s balled up the torn fabric of my t-shirt and he’s holding it against the cut on his eyebrow. And still, he offers up his free hand to the older cop with a smile that makes him look like he’s ten years younger.
They shake hands and I watch the surreal exchange. Surely this isn’t happening. I must be dreaming. This isn’t Kian fucking O’Sullivan in my house, shaking hands with cops and chuckling about cooking.
“That’s a nasty injury,” the officer observes.
Kian sighs like he’s embarrassed. “My fault. A foul ball caught the dirt wrong… I should have been paying better attention.”
“Baseball player?”
Kian nods. “It’s time for me to turn in my glove, though. I’m getting too old for the sport.”
The older officer looks at Kian curiously. “And you are…?”
“Jonathan O’Malley,” he says smoothly. “This is my wife, Courtney.”
I nearly bug out at those words. His fucking what?
“I’m Officer Ruben Sanchez,” the older cop introduces. He looks somewhat placated since we opened the door, but I do notice some suspicion lingering in his kind brown eyes. “This is my partner, Duncan Briggs. We’re responding to a distress call from this address.”
Kian’s expression twists into shock. There’s a little alarm thrown in for good measure.
He’s good. Really fucking good.
“A distress call…?” he repeats, before glancing down towards me as though I have the explanation. “Honey, do you know what these gentleman are talking about?”
There are two ways I can play this. I can call Kian’s bluff and out him in front of the cops—or I can take him at his word and play along.
If I choose the former option, I’m running the risk of Kian killing not just me, but the two innocent men at my door along with me. There’s also the matter of the fact that my brother is bleeding out on the other side of the kitchen wall—and I’m the one who stabbed him. Best case scenario, I end up in jail.
The decision is split second, and I commit to it as I turn to both cops.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I say, marveling at how calm and convincing my voice sounds. “I do know that sometimes our line gets crossed with other houses in the area.”
“It is a congested area,” Sanchez muses. “And the phone companies these days…”
“Very congested,” Kian says with a nod. “We’re thinking of moving soon, actually. The commute to work is a killer.”
“Where do you work?”
“Manhattan,” Kian replies without missing a beat. “I work for this little start-up IT firm.”
“You don’t look like an IT guy,” Officer Sanchez comments.
Kian laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I really want to stop looking at him, but I can’t. All the danger and menace that radiated from him only seconds ago is gone. With that smile on his face, he can only be described as charming.
His looks definitely contribute. He’s got features that might have been called pretty if they weren’t seasoned with age. The blue eyes, the sun-kissed amber hair, the square of his jaw… It’s a lot to handle.
I’ve heard somewhere that humanity tends to root for good-looking people. I’ve never believed that more than right now. But it’s not just his looks. He’s charismatic, too. I can feel Officer Sanchez and his colleague being drawn in by that charisma.
If I had been the one with a fresh slice above my eyebrow, this might have played out differently. But since Kian’s the one sporting the wound, both officers seem eager to believe the story he’s given them.
“Uh, Mr. O’Malley,” Sanchez says, “you seem like a very nice young couple, but I’m afraid because of the distress call…”
“You have to look around,” Kian fills in instantly. “Of course. I completely understand.”
He does? I’d expected him to get rid of them at the door. Then again, he has no idea that my brother is slumped against the kitchen wall with a gushing stab wound in his abdomen.
If the cops end up doing a full inspection of the house, they’re sure to find him. And then what?
Will Kian O’Sullivan really slaughter two police officers? In my heart, I have to believe that he would.
And if he’ll kill them… what’s stopping him from killing me?
Kian holds the door open wider and allows both cops to walk through. Then he drapes his arm around me casually. I tense against him, but his hand squeezes gently down on my shoulder.
To the cops, I’m sure it looks like a gesture of comfort. But I recognize it for what it is: a warning.
“How long have you lived here?” Sanchez asks, turning on the spot.
The younger cop, Briggs, looks around more thoroughly, but his heart doesn’t seem in it. He’s more interested in observing Kian and me.
“We’re renting, actually,” Kian replies. “We moved here a little over a year ago, just after we got married.”
“Newlyweds?”
“That’s us,” Kian says, looking down at me with an expression so loving that I almost do a double take. Hell, for a second there, I almost wonder if there was a wedding somewhere along the line that I forgot about.
“What do you do, ma’am?” Briggs asks me, circling the living room—for what reason, I don’t know.
“Oh, I… um…” I come up blank.
And my hesitation gets a look from both officers.
Kian’s arm tightens on the back of my neck. It’s not a nice touch anymore. It’s hard and cruel—a reminder of what’s at stake here.
“She’s between jobs at the moment,” Kian steps in. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It happens to everyone.”
He gives me a look of understanding, but there’s subtext in his eyes. A clear message that’s impossible to miss. Play along or else.
I take a deep breath and fill my face with disappointment. Unsurprisingly, that turns out to be relatively easy. I have a lifetime of being disappointed to draw from.
“I got laid off recently,” I sigh. “And it’s not—you know, not exactly the easiest thing to admit to people.”
Both cops look at me with sympathy. I guess they bought the lie. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Sanchez says kindly. “But don’t worry. You’ll find another job. A better one.”
He gives me a smile that comes through from his eyes. There’s an almost paternal concern in there. I wonder how my life might have turned out if I’d had a father who looked at me like that. Like even the little disappointments in my life affected him as deeply as they affected me.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “That’s kind of you.”
“Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?” Kian asks. He’s really playing up the domestic husband role.
“Thank you, but no. We’re not allowed to eat or drink on the job.”
“Of course. Rules are rules.”
I notice both cops start to turn back towards the front door, as though they’ve concluded their search already.
“Wait,” I stammer. “I, uh… Do you need to see the rest of the house?”
I blurt it out before I can consider the consequences. Maybe my first instinct was wrong. Maybe I should tell these men that Drago is dying back there, that he needs their help, that this isn’t my husband and nothing here is normal and if they don’t intervene then I might not live to see the morning.
Officer Sanchez raises his eyebrows, but I’m really looking at Kian out of the corner of my eyes. His perfectly crafted mask doesn’t slip. His tension, though, is like a heat wave rippling through me. Sweat pricks at the backs of my thighs.
“Oh, nah,” Sanchez demurs. “To be honest, you two seem like a nice couple. I’m sure the call was a result of crossed lines, just like you said. No reason for us to take up any more of your time.”
I try not to look too disappointed, even though my heart is beating furiously against my ribcage. Like it’s saying, over and over again, Help-me, help-me, help-me.
&nb
sp; “Well, then, how about some water?” I suggest, making a last-ditch attempt at getting them around to the kitchen. “It’s the least I can do. You came all the way out here.”
Officer Briggs looks between Kian and me. His brows furrow just a little. Go to the kitchen, I want to scream. Go to the fucking kitchen!
“Maybe we should finish looking around,” he says, stepping forward next to Sanchez.
“It’s not really nece—”
“Come on,” the younger cop says, cutting Sanchez off.
“Sure thing,” Kian says placidly. He gestures towards the other side of the house. “Follow me, gentlemen.”
My heart beats hard against my chest as I lead the men to the other side of the thick partition wall. Was this a mistake? Was this the right thing to do? God, I hope so.
In three steps, we’re going to round the corner and see my bloodied, dying brother.
In two steps, these officers are going to pull their guns and force Kian away from me, away from us.
In one step, I’m going to be saved.
We round the corner. And…
It’s empty.
I stop short, my breath hitching silently as I look to the kitchen floor.
Drago’s gone. Like he was never there at all. The only thing that betrays his presence is the kitchen towel I’d handed him lying on the floor.
Where the fuck is my brother?
“Oops,” Kian says, brushing past me. “Let me get that.”
When he straightens up again, the towel comes with him. And the tile underneath is perfectly clear.
I’m the only one who notices the way he scrunches up the towel—to hide the fact that the underside is stained with the blood he’s just wiped off the tile.
He tosses the rag into the sink and looks at me. “She’s a great cook,” he chuckles. “But a messy one.”
Sanchez gives me a smile. I notice Briggs looking around with scrutiny, but the suspicion is rapidly disappearing from his wrinkled brow.
“Well, everything seems to be fine here,” Officer Sanchez says. “We should be heading out now. We’ve taken up too much of your time.”
“Sure we can’t get you a glass of water?” Kian asks.
“Quite sure,” Sanchez says with a firm nod. “Good evening to you both. Take care of that cut.”
“Will do, Officer.”
The cops head back to the living room. The younger one trails behind, but he throws a casual glance over his shoulder as they both tromp back out into the night.
Kian shuts the door on them and turns the lock. And just like that, I’m alone again—with Kian O’Sullivan.
“Now…” he growls, turning to me with fire in his eyes. The charm and charisma of a few moments ago is gone. The don is back. “You wanna tell me what you’re hiding?”
5
Kian
She squares her shoulders as though she’s gearing up for another fight. I drop the material from my split eyebrow. I can feel that the bleeding has stopped, but I know from experience that there’s going to be bruising around my forehead even after the cut heals up.
Gotta hand it to her—the girl struck well.
“That was my favorite t-shirt,” she snaps.
I frown. “Huh?”
She removes the sweatshirt and flings it to the floor in the same way that I discarded the bloody piece of fabric I’d stolen from her t-shirt. Then she looks down at the scraggly edges of what is now a clumsy crop top.
I note the taught line of her abs, but I move my gaze up pointedly. The last thing I need is another distraction.
“This.” She gestures to the bottom of the t-shirt. “This was my favorite t-shirt.”
“Looks like shit. Old as hell.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she demands, sounding genuinely annoyed. “It’s still my favorite.”
“I apologize,” I say. “Is that better?”
“No.”
Her eyes flash and she twitches like she wants to hit me. She doesn’t, though.
Good girl. You’re learning fast.
“Why did you want those cops to see the rest of the house?” I ask quietly.
Her jaw tightens stubbornly as she crosses her arms over her chest. Of course, that pulls up her t-shirt a little higher, putting her impressively toned stomach on full display.
“I like showing off the house,” she replies sarcastically. “I’m a real Suzie Homemaker, y’know?”
“I’m the wrong fucking person to play with,” I warn her.
Her expression doesn’t lack fear. But she’s no coward, either. The crescent moon scar on her right cheek has turned an almost opaque silver.
“Really?” she asks. “Because you look like you like to play.”
I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. Is she making an accusation? There’s a slightly seductive bend to her words that give me pause.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, clearly uncomfortable.
“Tell me your name.”
She stiffens. Uncertainty washes over her face before she tries to tuck her emotions away beneath a veil of confidence.
“No?” I ask. “Then how about you tell me where Drago Lombardi is?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“That’s what I said,” she snaps. “He was here one minute and then…”
She trails off under my gaze and I start putting the pieces together. That’s why she wanted the cops to look around. She thought they’d find something in the kitchen.
“The blood on the kitchen floor,” I recall. “It was his.”
She looks away from me pointedly.
“What happened?” I press.
“What do you care?”
“Call it professional curiosity.”
Her hands are shaking a little. The way she defended herself against me was instinctive. She’s not the type of woman to lay down and take abuse. She’s a fighter. And it’s impossible not to be drawn to that.
It’s truly unfortunate that I’ll have to kill her.
I study her face, taking note of the bruise on her arm. It’s yellow now, probably days old. It’s not hard to imagine how it got there. “Does he do that to you often?” I ask.
She flinches. A dead giveaway. I know I’ve stumbled across the truth. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she says defensively.
“Oh, I know.”
She frowns. “You do?”
“It took me a moment to figure out why you’re so familiar to me,” I explain. “But once I got up close… Once I saw that scar on your cheek…”
Her face flushes with confirmation.
“…I knew.”
“Sometimes, even decent men must do terrible things for the greater good,” she whispers.
I wonder if maybe she has a concussion or something. I frown. “What did you just say?”
She lifts her chin and meets my gaze. The fight is back, no doubt spurred on whatever haunted memory is playing out in her mind’s eye. “That’s what you said to me,” she says fiercely. “That day…”
“The day I killed your father,” I say emotionlessly.
She hesitates for a moment. As though the memory is still painful. “Yes.”
I feel a twinge of regret. The first I’ve felt since the day I hurt—No, I hiss at myself silently. Don’t go there. Don’t relive that nightmare. “If I’d known you were standing there, I wouldn’t have killed him.”
“Yes, you would have,” she retorts. “You would have just dragged me out of the way and carried on with your nasty little business.”
I raise my eyebrows. Fair enough. “Well, yeah. That’s what I meant.”
She stares at me. For a second, I actually think she might smile. But it never comes. Maybe I’m the one suffering from the blow to the head.
“Tell me the truth,” she says. “You haven’t spared me a second thought since you walked away that day, did you? Not until just now.”
&nb
sp; I blink. “You’re right.”
She’s not, though. I have thought about her sporadically over the years. I used to wonder what became of her.
But when her brother got back on my radar, there was no woman tied to him. It seemed unlikely to me that a young man would take on the responsibility of a younger sibling, particularly a sister—relatively useless as a female in a macho world.
So I’d never imagined that she was here the whole time. Hiding under her brother’s shadow.
I could tell her all that. But what would be the point? She’d never believe me. And in a few minutes, it won’t matter anyway.
She’ll be dead. This will all be over.
“Oh, of course not. Why would you remember the little girl you left surrounded by dead bodies?” she says, bitterness soaked into her tone like venom. “But I remember you, Kian O’Sullivan. I’ve thought about you every single day since I was five years old.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be,” she hisses. “My brother is as flawed a man as they come. I don’t have a lot in common with him. But the one thing we do have in common is hating you.”
I lean against the wall. “I understand why he hates me,” I begin. “But why do you?”
Her mouth pops open in shock. For one wild second, I have to fight the urge to bite her lower lip.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
“Deadly serious.”
“I’m waiting for the punch line.”
“Your brother probably feels like I’ve stolen his birthright, his legacy, all that fucking bullshit men spout to gloss over the fact that they’re just greedy for power. But you? You have no reason to hate me.”
“I don’t?”
“No. I did you a favor.”
There’s a vein popping in her forehead now. I don’t even think she realizes that she’s moved closer to me of her own volition. “Say that again, motherfucker.”
I’m not surprised by the fact that pissing her off is actually pretty fun for me. I am surprised by the fact that it’s turning me on. “Your father was a bastard—”
“And you aren’t?”
“I most definitely am,” I concede with a wry chuckle. “But we’re different men. I may travel in the same circles, but I have boundaries I never cross. I have principles I follow.”
