by Krista Holt
Head bowed, he stares at the floor until I approach him. I gently lay my hands on his shoulders, and he wraps strong arms around my lower back, resting his head on my stomach.
I want to tell him it’ll be fine. That he’s doing the right thing, but right now, those reassurances seem like hollow platitudes. As much as I can sympathize with him, I can’t possibly understand, because I’ve never had to turn my back on the woman who raised me. I can only imagine how awful that must be.
So I hold him, silently lending my support. I run my hand through his hair and down to his neck, gently massaging the tense muscles.
After a while, he leans back and tugs me down into his lap. “Were you bored out of your mind today?”
“No. Tommy gave me my phones for a while. I had plenty of emails to return.”
“Huh.” He lazily kisses my collarbone, working his way to the side of my neck. Coarse hair from his unshaved jaw scratches at my skin, heightening the sensation.
“Nic…” I push at him, but then give in when his assault reaches my lips. My waiting questions fall by the wayside as I kiss him back.
His hand slides underneath the back of my shirt, grazing my skin. I arch my back, trying to get away from the electric shock of his touch, and at the same time get closer. I press myself against his chest, and he groans, nipping at my lower lip.
He grabs me and tosses me onto the bed, quickly crawling up my body to claim my lips again. Sweet, slow kisses grow deeper, more intense. He laces his fingers through mine and raises our hands above my head. He looks down at me in awe, studying me like he doesn’t want to miss a thing.
“You’re so damn beautiful.”
A blush heats my cheeks as I lean toward him, wanting to kiss him again. His full lips pull into a smirk as he taunts me with a brush of his lips against mine. It’s enough and yet not enough, because he’s close but still too far away.
“Stop teasing me,” I gasp, trying to pull my hands free, wanting to touch him, torment him like he’s tormenting me.
He smiles, full-on grins, and I think my heart skips a beat. He so rarely does it, I find myself momentarily stunned.
“I plan on teasing you for the rest of our lives,” he says roughly. “So get used to it.”
Everything I feel for him rises up inside of me, like water breaching a levee, spilling over when he says my name. His lips tickle the tender skin on my neck as he speaks to me, words of love and longing and lust. They imprint themselves into my very being. I turn my head and find his mouth again, kissing him hard, willing him to feel the emotions surging through me.
Settling his weight on top of me, he gently tugs my head back. Countless emotions flicker in his eyes. Some I can decipher. Love. Want. Pride. And others I can’t quite place.
“I would do anything for you, Reagan, but don’t abuse it.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. Stunned that he worries about me manipulating him, using him. No matter how messed up things got with Simmons, my intentions were pure. It wrecks me that he thinks I would do that—hurt him for sport. The more I learn about his family though, the more I wonder if he’s felt like this his whole life. Something to be used for his family’s ulterior motives.
I finally get my hands free, resting them on either side of his face, forcing him to look me in the eye. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I thought I was doing the right thing. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Are we okay?” My eyes search his. “Be honest with me.”
His face hardens. “Don’t ever pull the rug out from under me again, Reagan. I can’t handle it. Not from you.”
“I won’t. You know everything,” I breathe. “Well, almost everything…”
He sits back, bringing me upright with him. “What does that mean?”
“I called the office today. They want to know when I’ll be back.”
“You want to leave?” he asks, surprised.
“No, but it got me thinking. I need to know what’s happening here. I know you made a deal with Garrett, but what are the specifics? What’s going to happen after this?”
Affection softens the hard edges of his face, and then he drags a chair over to sit in front of me.
“My deal with Garrett is a little complex. It’s subject to change depending on the outcome of the trial. If he’s convicted, I’ll spend some time in witness protection.”
“Okay. So, what happens if he isn’t convicted?”
“I’m hoping that doesn’t happen.”
“But if it does?”
He studies me intently for a second, and then leans forward. “I plan on running. Ending up somewhere I can live out the rest of my days in anonymity.”
“What about us?”
“You always have an invitation, sweetheart. Whether you use it or not, is up to you.” He presses a brusque kiss to my temple, and then sits back, watching me.
“That’s it? It’s up to me?”
This is such departure from his past possessive stance, that I’m a little unsettled. Even the tired smile he gives me doesn’t do much to calm me down.
“If this whole thing with my father has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t make people be who you need them to be. They have to want to be that person for you. My father wanted a son who was willing to take over his business. So, he tried to force me into being that, into filling that need for him. He did it to my mother, my sister. People do it all the time to each other, but I can’t do that to you. Don’t get me wrong, if you decided it wasn’t what you wanted, if I wasn’t what you wanted—” his throat jerks as he swallows “—I would be a broken man, but I’d eventually accept it.”
His chest heaves with a deep breath. “I love you too much to see you miserable, Reagan. So the choice is yours.”
I try to smile, even though I’m slowly burning up. Overwhelmed and undecided. It’s not that I don’t want him. I do. But leaving behind everything you’ve ever worked for is a colossal thing to ask someone in their early twenties. I don’t even know where to start, and the what ifs are already plaguing me. What if I regret it? What about my plan? What if I say no, and then regret that?
What if? What if? What if?
“You don’t have to answer now.” His large hand squeezes my knee reassuringly. “It’s why I didn’t say anything earlier. I didn’t want to scare you.”
“What about what happened with Saul?”
“I haven’t exactly told Garrett about it. He suspects, but he hasn’t come right out and accused me of anything. I’m hoping he lets it go. My father is a big prize for the Bureau. They’re probably going to get a couple glowing write-ups in the Times because of this, going on and on about how the FBI is on the forefront of defeating domestic terrorism or some other nonsense,” he says dryly. “Might even make a movie about it.”
I shake my head. “It’s nice to know your ego is still intact.”
“You love it.” His foot nudges mine.
“I love you. Your weird sense of humor is something I tolerate.”
The corner of his mouth twitches with a laugh he’s trying to suppress. “Now the truth comes out.”
“Hey, I’ve got you guys’ dinner out here,” Tommy interrupts, knocking on the door.
“I’ll get it.” Nic pushes to his feet and opens the door, taking the food from the agent. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he replies, thrusting something else toward Nic. “Can you give these to Reagan?”
Nic looks at the stack of books with surprise. “Yeah. Anything else?” he asks, his tone noticeably cooler.
“Nope.” Tommy shakes his head. “That’s all. See you in the morning.”
Nic kicks the door shut, tosses the books down on the small table, and drops the bags of food next to them. Mmm…smells like Thai.
“From your admirer.”
I reach around him, looking at the covers of some obscure mysteries I’ve never heard of.
He jerks open the knotted plastic bag a
nd takes out some silverware and napkins. “Do you intentionally captivate every man you come in contact with, or does it just happen?”
“Excuse me?” I frown at him.
“Him, Scott. Garrett even seems intrigued.”
“I—uh…are you jealous?”
“Do I need to be?”
“Oh my gosh, you are!” I open and close my mouth, dumbfounded. I never thought we’d be in this position. He’s always been the one to get the lingering looks and interested glances.
“He was being nice,” I insist. “He knows there’s not a lot for me to do, so he brought me some books. That’s it.”
“What about Scott?” He sets the Styrofoam containers on the table with a little more force than necessary.
“What about him?”
“He looks at you like he wants more.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” I hug him around the waist, pressing myself against his back. “And I don’t care what he wants. I want you.”
“Maybe. Sit down and eat.”
I perch on the edge of one of the chairs, laughing again when he drags it closer to his before he sits down. “What happened to letting me decide?”
He dumps some noodles onto a paper plate and pushes it in front of me. “Oh, it’s your choice. But I never said I wasn’t going to fight for you.”
I hide my grin behind a forkful of food.
“You’re enjoying this.” He scowls at me.
“A little. It’s not every day I get to see you looking this uncomfortable.” I laugh. “Stop frowning at me like that.”
“Eat your food.”
I do, teasing him until he shuts me up with a kiss. This playful back and forth continues until we get ready for bed. Lying against the soft sheets, he whispers the word mine in between possessive kisses to my skin. I kiss him back, forgetting for the moment the reality of our situation, and oh-so-blissfully ignorant of what the night would bring.
But, I think that’s what life is, learning to enjoy yourself in between moments of heartache.
“I almost forgot.” I prop myself up on an elbow, looking down at his dark outline against the stark white sheets. My hand runs through his hair as I kiss him on the cheek.
“Happy Birthday.”
He groans, tumbling me over and pulling me underneath him. “You know I hate talking about those.”
“I don’t care. ‘Cause I’m pretty happy you were born.”
He exhales, his breath warm against my skin, and places a soft kiss to my neck.
“Go to sleep, Reagan.”
CHAPTER 31
Nic
THEY SAY DREAMS ARE A warning.
A way your subconscious tries to relay something. An alarm from an unseen force urgently trying to connect to you in a way you can understand.
Tonight, my dreams are peaceful for a while. Then it starts. The dark turns cold, and there’s a movement to it. A current. A rolling tide pitches my body up and over, down and to the side. My hands are bound. My feet, too.
My mouth is uncovered, but it doesn’t do any good. My yells go unheard. The carbon dioxide leaving my mouth is exchanged for a heavier element. It burns my lungs and seizes my throat. I try to get it up, to get it out, struggling to breathe. It doesn’t work. It’s too much, too hard.
My mouth opens and the last of my air escapes my throat, rising in bubbles toward the surface. I’m drowning. I realize this; I feel the truth of it in the pit of my stomach. But I try to fight it, wracking my brain for any possible way out before accepting the inevitable. Death.
My pulse slows as I still, the weight at my feet dragging me farther down into the darkness. And at the last moment, the last squeeze of my heart, the last slow blink of my eyelids, I jerk awake.
I can’t breathe.
My throat is dry from the terror and the imaginary saltwater I inhaled. My heart is racing and the sound of blood rushing through my veins echoes in my head. I’m covered in sweat and my hands shake.
I scramble out of the sheets twisted around my body and run to the bathroom. Hitting my knees right before I lose what little dinner I ate into the toilet. Smothering a groan with my hand, I try not to wake her.
It’s too late, though. Her step is light on the tile floor behind me, signaling her arrival before she reaches out and touches me.
“Nic?” Her cool hand rests on my heated back, trying to comfort me. And I selfishly draw everything I can from it, from her presence. From her touch.
“Are you okay?” She lowers herself behind me.
“No.” I shake my head, admitting how small and insignificant I feel. The sting of the bile still coats my throat and I can’t help but feel that I deserve that pain. That reminder.
She seems to understand what’s wrong, what’s happening to me without an explanation. Her head hits my back, her arms winding their way around my waist to remind me that she’s there. She presses a kiss to my shoulder and then utters what I need to hear. The balm for my ravaged soul.
“I’m right here.”
A streak of wetness runs down my cheek as I reach back. My hand grips her waist, hard enough to leave a bruise, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she holds me tighter, holds me together.
I don’t know how long we stay there, wrapped in each other, wrapped in our own thoughts. Not another word is spoken between us until eventually, I become aware of the tile digging through the fabric of my pants and into the skin on my knees.
Reagan hasn’t moved. She’s still holding onto me, her head against my back.
“Sweetheart, let’s go back to bed,” I tell her.
Her arms squeeze me one last time before I help her to her feet. She waits for me as I brush my teeth, then my hands find her waist and I steer us both back toward the bed.
I lie down, and she sits next to me, hand on my chest. “Do you want anything? Aspirin? A washcloth?”
“No.” I just want her. Tumbling her into the sheets with me, I wrap my arm around her back and tuck her head underneath my chin. The smell of her perfume hits my nose and I inhale.
“This will all be over soon,” she says. “Just a few more days.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Because my gut, the same place that told me it was all over in my dream, is now telling me this isn’t going to end well.
Despite all my planning and plotting, I have a feeling I may not have many more nights left to dream.
* * *
“You look like shit.”
Garrett shoves a cup of coffee toward me.
“Thanks,” I grumble, reaching for the offered paper cup.
“Anything I need to know about?”
I shake my head, sipping the hot liquid. The first tendrils of caffeine hit my system, slowly reviving me.
“Good, then it’s my turn to talk.”
I lean back in the hard wooden chair, ignoring the way my ribs protest the unforgiving surface. We’ve been waiting in this small room almost an hour for the trial to start again. There’s been delay after delay, and it’s not helping settle my nerves. The same ones that have been in overdrive ever since my dream. That, plus running on a few hours of sleep means I’m in no mood to deal with Garrett’s strong-arm routine right now.
“What about?”
“Tommy was talking to Reagan yesterday…”
“And?”
“What do you know about Reagan’s dad?”
“Not much. Why?”
“Tell me what you do know.”
I take another sip, wanting to avoid his questions. It’s not my story to tell. It’s going to come out though, the truth always does. And as much as I don’t want to tell him before Reagan, I think he might be able to give me some insight into the man who calls himself Reagan’s father.
“He surprised me one night, about two months into our relationship,” I finally answer.
I tossed my keys into the bowl I kept by the door, having just dropped Reagan off. As I headed up to bed, a voice called out to me in the darkness.
/> “So, you’re the piece of shit who thinks he’s good enough for my daughter?”
In that moment, my mind blew through every option I had. My gun was in the kitchen; the spare was in my car. He’d caught me by surprise.
The soft click of plastic preceded the living room lights flaring to life, illuminating an older man sitting comfortably in my wingback chair, his gun trained on me.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Savage?” The barrel of his gun moved infinitesimally toward the nearby couch.
“Who are you?”
“Ethan Cooper. Reagan’s father.”
Who is this girl? was the only thought that ran through my mind as I slowly crossed the room and took a seat.
“I’m not sure what she’s told you about me, if anything, but to be on the safe side, you can assume I’m alive and that I still look out for her. I know all about you and what your family does, so I’m only going to say this once—break up with her. Never contact her again. Never see her again, and I will let you live.”
“With all due respect,” I countered, “I’m not doing that.”
He stood slowly and took measured steps in my direction. His gun never strayed from my chest. “Excuse me?”
“I know I’m not good enough for her. I’m trying to change that, though.”
“Go on.” He paused, and then gestured with the gun again.
I’d told him that I wanted out. Told him she made me want more from my life. And then, after the longest hour of my life, he disappeared when I went to get him a glass of water, leaving behind a scrap of paper with a phone number on it. A phone number I have never used. I hadn’t spoken to or heard from him again, until he texted me about my sloppy job in Battery Park, that is.
“You talked with him?” Garrett asks, his brow furrowing into a scowl.
“Yeah, awhile ago when he found out I was dating Reagan. He tried to scare me off. Didn’t work, obviously.”
“Did he tell you anything about what he does? Or did?”
I shake my head. “No, and I wasn’t really in a position to be asking questions. It’s funny how having a gun pointed at you makes it hard to come up with conversation topics.”
