by Krista Holt
“Well, then, last night I had one hell of a dream. For five minutes, I held this perfect woman in my hands, kissed the hell out of her. And for a brief moment, all was right in the world.”
She takes another sip. “Some dream.”
“It was. And I want a repeat. Tonight.”
“Not going to happen. I lost my mind for a second, but I can assure you it’s back. That dream of yours? It’s not going to play out again.”
“That so?”
Her expression is one of iron determination. “That’s so.”
“Huh.” I lift the scotch to my lips and drain the glass. It burns. Damn, does it burn. I cough into my hand, eyes watering with the pain.
She watches my coughing fit, narrowing in on my hand. “Is that blood? Are you bleeding?”
Worry sharpens her features, slightly calming the raging storm inside of me, because she cares, even if it’s only enough to make sure I’m not dying.
I grab a napkin and wipe away the evidence. “It’s fine.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“I bit the inside of my cheek, that’s all.”
She studies me intently, and I let her, keeping my expression open and unguarded.
I take a deep breath and quickly let it out before admitting, “I’m tired, Reagan. I’m so…tired.”
“What do you expect me to say to that, Nic? To feel sorry for you?” She pauses, inhaling deeply. “Because I do. I’m so sorry that you’ve been put in this position. It breaks my heart to see what’s happening to you. What you’ve become. Because somewhere deep down inside, I know, I know that the guy I fell in love with is still around.”
I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away. Sitting back, she puts even more space between us. I know what’s coming next. She looks at me, eyes sorrowful, disappointment and heartbreak warring in their depths.
“That guy I fell in love with, he may still be in there, somewhere, but the problem is, he’s not the one in charge. And I can’t be with whoever this is, whoever you are now. I want no part of it.”
I swallow hard. “Come home with me. One night. That’s all I’m asking for.”
She laughs bitterly. “That’s it, huh?”
“Yes. One night, that’s all.”
“Why? After everything, why this?”
“Because I have some things to tell you, and it can’t happen here. I don’t want anyone else overhearing.”
I’m an asshole for dangling that prize in front of her, just out of her reach. I know she wants the truth, badly. So badly, she’s willing to consider leaving with me in order to get it. The desire for it flickers in her eyes.
“Remember that time we went to the beach, just outside of Half Moon Bay?”
Her eyes fall to her lap, but she remembers. I know she does.
“We sat on the beach all day, talking about nothing and everything all at the same time. It was starting to get dark, but neither of us wanted to leave. I told you that I wanted to stay right there, right in that spot in the sand. I didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave. I wanted everything to stay the same, exactly as it was in that moment. So we stayed, fell asleep on the only beach towel we brought, and woke up with the sunrise.”
She lifts her head, looking at anything but me, tears lining her eyes.
“I know you thought I was talking about that day, that date. But I wasn’t. I knew, somehow, that what happened would eventually happen. I’d have to come home and leave you behind. But there wasn’t a single moment of our shitty time apart that I didn’t wish I was back on that beach with you. Talking about everything, talking about nothing.”
My chest aches as I relive this memory. It’s one of the few perfect ones I have. Treasured and private. I wait for what seems like ages for her to look at me. Really look at me. And when she does, the truth comes out.
“I would give everything I own to be back there again. With you, and nothing else.”
Silence stretches between us. It’s fine, though. It’s one of those that don’t need to be filled. I’m content with the quiet, until she softly whispers one word.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER 9
Reagan
HISTORY IS A FUNNY THING. They say with time and distance, we’re supposed to glean something from the past, to learn from our experiences. But what I’ve found is that history of a personal nature almost always has the opposite effect. Rather than learning from our mistakes, we repeat them. Because that history, the familiarity that occurs between two people when they’ve experienced a small part of life together, makes us fools. It lures us into the pit, time and time again, makes us believe that this time will be different…that this time he’ll change…that this time I won’t get hurt. And you know what the genesis of all that stupidity is? Hope.
Hope.
It springs eternal. An abundance of it resides in the human heart, a well that never runs dry. So we cling to it. Not because it’s effective, but because it’s there. When everything in life seems to go wrong, and you can’t break through in one single area of your life, you hope. You hope that tomorrow will be different. That tomorrow will be better. That somehow, someway, something will change.
What they don’t tell you though, is what happens when hope sours. When you can’t possibly use it to sustain yourself anymore. They don’t tell you what happens when it finally makes your heart sick.
That’s exactly how I feel as Nic ushers me into the elevator of a luxury high rise somewhere in Georgetown. I feel sick. Sick of the endless cycle we’re in. Sick of the pain I’m constantly in. I’m weary, and heartsick, and completely lost. And I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I want to feel better. I want him to make me feel better. Even if it’s only temporary.
With a hand on my lower back, he guides me down a short hallway, and I notice the craftsman details of the building along the way. The crown molding, and the dizzying black and white print on the carpet beneath our feet. We pass an emergency exit, and Nic slows as we near a large black door.
Reaching around me, he unlocks it and steps inside. His hand grasps mine, gently prompting me to follow him. But I can’t. My legs lock up and my back tenses as I stare into the black abyss that is his apartment. It’s eerily dark. The only light comes from the hallway behind us and it hardly illuminates a thing. I take a step back, but his hand tightens around mine.
“It’s fine.” With a quick tug, he draws me forward.
The door closes, plunging us into darkness, and I clench my free hand into a fist, trying to stop my freak out. But I can’t, because there’s a reason I haven’t been sleeping without a light on.
My eyes slam shut, and my breathing becomes faint. My mind is overtaken by images of that night. The van. That room. Nic. The hand around my throat. Not being able to breathe. I can’t escape the nightmare. It’s like it never ended. In my mind, I’m still tied to that chair.
He touches my shoulder, and I flinch. My knees buckle and suddenly his arm is around my waist, holding me upright.
“Reagan!”
I hear him bump into the wall, knocking things around. Then, with a faint click, light bursts through the room. My nightmare ends.
Dark brows pinch together in concern, and intense eyes flick over my face. “You’re safe. I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”
I suck in a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Sorry. I’m fine. Really.”
“No, you’re not.”
Quickly, he strips me of my belongings. He takes my purse and drops it on a table. My coat is next, followed by his. Then, with linked fingers, he leads me toward the masculine looking leather couch in the middle of the room. He slowly sits, pulling me into his lap. His strong arms wrap around me, a hand holding the back of my neck as he presses a kiss to my forehead. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the way his touch makes what little hope I have left multiply by leaps and bounds.
“You aren’t sleeping,” he says softly, his fingers running through my hair. “It’s the dark
. It’s giving you nightmares.”
“It’s not the dark that gave me the nightmares.”
He tenses, holding me tighter and hiding his face against my neck. “I will never let anything like that happen to you again.”
I don’t say anything as my eyes quickly scan the room. It’s the first time I’ve been in this apartment, and oddly enough, the decor is exactly what I’d expect for him. An iron chandelier hangs in the middle of the room, and an old brick fireplace takes up a whole wall. The couch we’re sitting on faces it, and a large off-white rug lies underneath our feet. The walls are painted a soft brown and dark hardwood covers the floor. An impressive kitchen takes up the wall behind us, and in the far corner is an entrance to a hallway.
Everything about the large space screams that it was set up by a professional decorator and then left alone. There are no personal touches, no pictures, nothing to reveal anything about the man who sleeps here occasionally.
“How long have you been living here?”
“Uh…a few months before you got here, I guess.”
“That’s not really an answer.” I meet his gaze as he arches a single brow. “And why are you measuring time by when I arrived in D.C.?”
His dark irises deepen as he studies me, brushing a lock of hair off my cheek. “My life revolves around you. It only makes sense that I measure time that way, too.”
I turn away, resting my head more fully on his chest, not wanting to let his words affect me. Our conversation at the restaurant already crumbled a huge part of the wall I’d been building to protect myself. He’d been so open. Trusting, even. All my anger aside, I couldn’t ignore the way exhaustion hangs off him. Tired eyes had begged me to understand, chipping away at my defenses. Then he mentioned that night back in California, and all my vain attempts at self-preservation turned to dust.
That night seems like just yesterday. It wasn’t something I would have ever done. I would have left when the sun started to sink, but he mentioned staying there, in the still warm sand, with his arm wrapped around my shoulders, and I couldn’t envision myself anywhere else. We tried to fit our bodies onto that ridiculously small beach towel, though I think Nic ended up lying more in the sand than on the terry cloth. Nestled in his arms and using his bicep as my pillow, I’d fallen asleep to the ocean waves and his blood thrumming through his veins. It was then that I realized I was in danger of losing my heart to him. And I think some little part of me sensed I might lose much more than that, too.
If I’d known then what I know now, I wonder if I would have gotten up from our towel and run off that beach as fast as my legs could carry me. Or would I have stayed?
“When was the last time you slept through the night?” His words rumble through his chest, and his fingers take up residence at the nape of my neck, brushing against my skin.
“It’s been awhile.”
His hand tightens on my neck. “Look at me.”
I meet his intense gaze, watching him as he studies me. Memorizing how his eyes scan my face. “What happened that night…you getting hurt…him touching you…that’s never going to happen again. I want you to know that. He is never going to hurt you again.”
“I wish I believed you.”
“You can.”
My eyes drop, and I try to get control of my emotions. The ones rioting in my chest, searching for any outlet. Any opportunity to bare my soul to him.
“You just stood there.” My voice cracks. “Am I just supposed to pretend that didn’t happen?”
“No,” he says roughly. “You’re not. I don’t expect you to.”
“How am I supposed to reconcile that man, with this one?” I rest my hand on his chest, my pleading eyes searching his dark ones. “Tell me. Please, tell me how. Because I’m having a hard time believing anything you say right now.”
His jaw clenches as he looks at me. “It won’t happen again.”
I hang my head. So much for getting the truth out of him…
A tired sigh leaves my lips. “I can’t talk about this anymore. I can’t think about it anymore. I’m exhausted.”
“Then sleep.”
“Sleep?” I almost laugh. I’m just supposed to forget everything and sleep, because he told me I could?
“Yeah, sleep. Just relax. You’re safe here. Nothing is going to happen. Close your eyes for awhile.”
Try as I might to ignore his advice, it becomes harder and harder to reopen my eyes after every blink. With my head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart in my ear acts like white noise, drowning everything else out.
“Leave the light on, please,” I whisper.
“Anything you need.” He shifts underneath me and sets his phone on the coffee table. His forearms rest at the small of my back as he kisses my hairline, and then my forehead.
“You’re my life, Reagan, I would do anything for you. You just have to ask.”
I don’t say anything, and before I know it, everything goes dark.
* * *
My body jerks awake, snapping Nic out of a dead sleep.
“Are you okay?” He sits up, taking me with him. His hand runs over my warm forehead, clearing the hair from my clammy skin and the beginnings of a nightmare from my mind.
“I’m okay.” I breathe deeply. “Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”
“You want some water? A drink?”
My mouth is suddenly dry, so I nod yes.
Carefully, he extricates himself from me before shuffling to the kitchen. Cabinets open and close and there’s the sound of running water before he returns, pushing the cool glass into my slightly shaky hands.
“Thanks.”
He makes a noise of approval before sitting back down on the couch beside me. “Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, taking a sip.
“Was it about me?”
“No.”
“Him?”
Only parts of it involved the man who choked me. Nothing else about the dream made sense. Reality mixed with my imagination, just enough to frighten me.
“Kind of.” My eyes drop to my lap. “Go back to sleep, please.”
“Will you stay the night?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. And with a sigh, he takes the glass from me, setting it on the table near his phone. I can tell he’s about to pull me back onto the couch with him, but I’m not quite ready.
“Where’s the restroom?”
“Down the hall, in the bedroom.”
“I’ll be right back.” I follow his directions to the bathroom and close the door behind me. Approaching the vanity, I stare into the mirror above it. Sleep dazed eyes and smeared mascara greet me.
I splash some water on my face and wipe off my makeup with one of his hand towels before quickly using the restroom. When I open the door, Nic is waiting for me, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Are you really okay?”
“Yes,” I lie, because I don’t really know what else to say. I shouldn’t be here, but I am. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me, but I am.
I eye the bed, drawn like Aurora to the spindle. The puffy pillows and soft bedding are calling my name, even though I know getting into bed with him is a colossally stupid idea.
“Come on, that couch isn’t very comfortable.” He fights a smirk, picking up on my growing obsession with his mattress. “We’ll sleep, that’s all.” He kicks off his shoes and pulls the top sheet back before patting the bed invitingly.
“That’s it,” I echo as I toe off my own shoes and then crawl across the foot of the bed to the other side. My head hits the soft pillow, and I moan in relief.
He rolls toward me and throws an arm over my waist, resting his head on the opposite pillow. “Goodnight, Reagan.”
“Night.”
His eyes slide close, and it isn’t long before he falls asleep. I, however, remain wide-awake.
CHAPTER 10
HOURS LATER, NIC SNORES SOFTLY beside me as I stare at the ceiling, unable to shut my brain
off.
I feel trapped. Like no matter what I do, I’m stuck rattling the locked iron door of a cage I’ve somehow found myself in, screaming at the top of my lungs, trying to get someone to notice. But…nothing happens. No one hears me. No one comes to my rescue.
And you know what the irony of it all is? I did this to myself. Every decision, every action, every choice, was made by me. I could have refused Simmons’s offer. I could have walked away. I could have refused to inform on the man I loved. But I didn’t. Instead, I chose to become a disaster of my own making. The director of my own catastrophe.
I’ve wracked my brain for another way out of this. Some plan that doesn’t end in utter devastation and completely destroy Nic. But I can’t find one. And I have a sneaking suspicion that no matter how this ends, I’ll be sentencing my heart to a lifetime of existing outside my chest, all because I ripped it out and offered it to him a long time ago.
I’m desperate though. And desperation makes people do crazy things. Things they normally wouldn’t do.
As quietly as possible, I slide out of bed and walk to the living room. Sitting on the edge of the couch, I reach for the glass of water I left there and take a long sip. My gaze lands on my purse, my mind on the device hidden inside. The one Simmons gave me at dinner tonight.
His harsh words still ring in my head. How he told me he contacted his superiors the night we’d been kidnapped, right after I had screamed the details into the phone and hung up on him. How he had started the process of obtaining an arrest warrant for Nic the next day, even though his supervisors wouldn’t return his phone calls. He’d been so confident the Bureau would be able to arrest Nic on assault, or at least, unlawful imprisonment based on my account alone. But when his supervisors didn’t reply to his urgent messages, he went to their offices and demanded answers. Only to be given the same explanation Agent O’Neil would later give me. There wasn’t enough to detain Nic. They weren’t interested in arresting the underboss of the Selvaggio Family on something so inconsequential.
“I showed them everything you ever gave me, Reagan. All of it. But it wasn’t enough. They weren’t interested. And now, they’re threatening to pull my team and reassign me to another division. I’m afraid if we can’t turn something else up soon, they’re going to close the case.”
