by S. Massery
My parents taught me better than that. They taught me fucking self-preservation.
And yet, here I am, an even bigger schmuck for what I’ve done to Grace. Except the difference between Jackson and I is that I’m not convinced Grace is innocent. Or good. Or kind.
Her gratitude comes in the way of turning me in to the Argentos. Her plan to run me out of this city isn’t going to work. I love this city—Miami is a home like no other. Saving her the first time was a mistake. This second time—pure revenge.
She’s going to pay for trying to ruin me—even if I ruined her first.
9
GRACE
A sewing kit and mouthwash—like I’m some sort of savage.
I grab my torn shirt and roll it, stuffing it into my mouth. I don’t want to lose my nerve. When I dump the mouthwash on my arm, a burning sensation. I would’ve screamed if not for the fabric, and I bite down on it as my body shakes.
I probably should’ve threaded the needle and sterilized it before setting my arm on fire. My hands won’t stop trembling.
You could ask for help, a voice in my head reasons. Except there’s no way I’m going to go out there and ask him for help. What would I say? Morning Star, please stitch my arm with thread you’ve probably had on you for the last year.
The fact that I don’t know his name tugs at me.
I rip off another strip, tying it around my arm in a snug knot. It hurts like a bitch, but there’s no way I can put a needle through my skin like this. I tuck the remainder of my shirt into my jacket pocket and zip it up, covering my bra. At least he brought your jacket inside.
The mirror is dirty, but I still wince at my reflection. My makeup is dark, mascara and eyeliner smudged down my face. I always wore more than necessary to fit in at the club scene, and tonight…
Tonight had started off as a regular night.
I rinse off the blood from my hands and sigh, then push back out into the diner.
He’s waiting for me in a booth, two slices of pie in front of him. There’s also two mugs, one of which is topped with whipped cream. When I sit down, he looks me up and down and smirks.
Slowly, I reach forward and take one of the plates, dragging it across the table. He watches me go for his fork next, not moving as I pluck it out of his hand and eat.
Apple pie. Mom used to make the best apple pie, before Dad ran her out of the state when I was fourteen. This one has caramelized sugar on the crust, making it almost too sweet. I drop the fork and lift the mug, cool cream hitting my upper lip before the hot chocolate hits my tongue.
I almost groan at the delight of it, then go back to the pie.
I polish off the slice and grab the other—blueberry by the looks of it—and my captor-slash-savior stares at me.
His hand shoots out and presses mine flat to the table.
I blink up at him, and he shakes his head. He releases my hand slowly. I take that slice and eat it in record time, using my fingers to swipe up the sauce left on the plate.
“Feeling better?”
I lift one shoulder.
He sighs and yanks out his wallet, throwing a twenty on the table. “Great. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
He stares down at me, his blue eyes cutting through me.
I can’t tell if he’s better than the men I left… or worse.
Finally, he rolls his shoulders back. “My friend has a safe place upstate. Only a few hours away.”
“It’s going to be light soon.”
“Tell me, Grace. Are they going to just let you walk away?”
“Javier would,” I say in a low voice. “Marco… maybe not so much.”
He snorts. “It’s a damn good thing Javier’s in charge, then.”
In charge and out of town.
“Since you couldn’t stitch that arm, I sure as hell hope you bound it well.”
“How do you know I couldn’t do it?”
I get a smile out of him. It’s quick, like flashing sunlight, and then he’s back to scowling. “Because you ain’t got the nerve.”
I follow him outside, back to his bike. He hands me the helmet again, tilting my head up to help me with the strap. His fingers on my skin are little zaps of electricity. When it’s done, I step back.
“If you think you’re going to pass out, ride in front of me.”
I take a deep breath. “No, I should be okay.”
He shrugs. “If you fall off, that’s your problem.”
“Nice,” I mutter. “Hey—what’s your name?”
Morning Star stares at me. “Really?”
“Well,” I shift. “Yeah.”
He smirks. “You can just call me the legend you thought you knew.”
Oh my god.
“Just get on the bike,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”
He straddles it, twisting to face me. “Chop-chop.”
“How did you become the way you are?”
“That’s a question for another day.” He laughs and reaches forward, sliding the visor part of the helmet down over my eyes.
The world is suddenly a bit quieter, and a lot darker.
I get on the bike and wrap my arms around his waist. He takes my hands and pulls them tighter around him, until my front is flush against his back.
“Get comfortable,” he says. “We’re not stopping until we get there.”
His thumb brushes the ring on my finger like a ghost… or maybe it was an accident. The bike roars to life, and off we go. This is the third time I’ve been on the back of his bike—of any bike, actually.
It’s a rush, and I hold on to this stranger in front of me tighter—half fear, half exaltation.
Eventually, the feeling fades. Exhaustion sinks in. I rest my head on his shoulder blade, gripping his shirt and letting my eyes close. Through it all, my arm pulses.
I wake up when the motorcycle slows. His hand is tight over mine, keeping my hands pinned against his stomach. He pulls onto a gravel driveway. We’re so far away from… anything, really. We’re surrounded by thick clusters of trees and bushes, and the driveway winds its way away from the road for a few minutes.
His hand suddenly leaves mine, like he knows I’m awake, and he guns the engine. Gravel kicks up behind us as we whip down the driveway. We go by a large building, then up a steep hill to a cabin perched at the top.
He kills the engine in the driveway, twisting around to look at me. His smile is wry. “You made it without falling off,” he says. “Congratulations.”
I scowl and yank the helmet off my head. “Gee, thanks.”
“Thought you were a goner for a second there.”
I put my foot on the ground and swing off, surprised at how weak my legs are. I grab on to his shoulder… and then I realize I’d much rather fall over than use him for support.
I wobble away, toward the small path carved out between rocks and bushes, and ignore his chuckle. The path leads down a rather steep hill to the other building we passed. To our left, there’s a giant field.
“Shooting range,” he says behind me.
I squint. “That far?”
“One thousand yards is the first target. They go back farther, but it’s harder to see.”
I nod, crossing my arms over my chest. “Why did you bring me here?”
“It’s safe.”
“For who?”
I can feel his gaze on me, and I try not to shiver. I don’t know how I want him to answer—is this his home? Did he bring me somewhere… personal?
A four-wheeler comes roaring up the hill, skidding to a halt next to the motorcycle.
A large man hops off, grinning from ear to ear. “Dalton! Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Dalton. He’s a hell of a lot more human with a name—which is probably exactly why he didn’t want to tell me.
“Had some trouble.” Dalton looks back out toward the shooting range.
“You the little lass that sent him running from Miami?” His fr
iend walks toward me, raising an eyebrow.
I smile. “Not purposefully.”
He sticks out his hand, and I shake it without hesitating. Finally, someone with some manners.
“I’m Colin Bloss. I run this shooting range and self-defense school. Dalton and I served in the—”
“That’s enough,” Dalton growls.
We both glance at him.
“She’s not here as a friend. So don’t break out the welcome wagon.”
“Dick,” I mutter.
Colin bursts out laughing. “Well, no matter his opinion—you’re welcome here. Grace, was it?”
“You got it.”
“Come inside. I have a feeling Dalton would prefer to let out some steam in private.”
I raise my eyebrows, but neither man reacts to that. Part of me feels like I’m in hot water. I shot at Dalton, and he only briefly mentioned it. I turned him in to Marco…
All of it is going to come back and bite me in the ass if I’m not careful.
But he deserved it, a voice in my head whispers.
Colin unlocks the front door and ushers me inside. It’s a cozy cabin, filled with dark woods and animal heads mounted on the wall. There’s a fireplace in the living room, although who would have a fireplace in Florida beats me.
“I’ve got a few spare rooms upstairs,” he says. “Keep ’em for wayward travelers.”
“What do you do here?”
Colin spins around, grinning at me. He has dark-blonde hair, a well-kept beard, and a beautiful smile. The devil never smiles—well, except for that one time that my heart almost stopped—and Colin hasn’t stopped.
“D didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head.
He spreads his arms. “Welcome to Safe Haven.”
I find myself smiling back. Can’t help it, even with the sudden throbbing in my arm.
“Right this way,” he says. He leads me up the stairs, opening first one door. “Bathroom,” he says. “And here’s your room. D’s across the hall. I’m on the first floor.”
I hesitate in the doorway. The last bedroom I went in, they locked the door behind me. “Um…”
“Did you bring any bags?”
I shake my head, suddenly feeling too vulnerable. I’m not even wearing a shirt under this jacket. “Can I bother you for a t-shirt?”
His smile is gentle. I can’t imagine what sort of people come to Safe Haven. “There are some in the drawer. There’s toiletries in the bathroom, too. Help yourself.”
I nod. “And…” Ugh. “Do you know how to stitch a wound?”
His eyes widen a fraction, and the smile slides right off his face. It’s about time. “You hurt under that jacket of yours?” He waves his hand. “Get a t-shirt on and meet me downstairs. We’ll get you fixed up.”
I walk into the room and exhale when he closes the door behind me. He’s nice—he’s probably the nicest person I’ve ever met. And that says something, because even my father can be a royal jackass.
I look down at the ring on my finger, almost surprised it’s still on. With all the excitement, I had finally forgotten about it. Pulling it off lifts a weight from my shoulders. I take a deep breath, tempted to chuck it out the window. Instead, I set it on the dresser and yank open a drawer. There are folded shirts wrapped in plastic, looking like they were put in here straight from the package they were shipped in.
I dig around until I find a t-shirt a size too big and rip the bag open. I lay it on the bed and slowly unzip my jacket. That’s not the hard part. It’s when I try to slide it off that agony rips up into my shoulder and down to my fingertips. I finally get it off, sagging onto the bed. My jacket drops to the floor.
The makeshift bandage is soaked through, and trails of dried blood wrap around and down my arm. Putting on the t-shirt is a bit of a struggle, but once it’s on, I exhale.
My hair stands up straight at the sound of distant gunfire. I instinctively duck, but no shattering glass accompanies the sound. I cross to the window. I can make out a figure lying on the ground behind the building, a long rifle extended in front of him.
Someone knocks on my door, pushing it open as another shot is fired.
“Did you spot Dalton?” Colin asks.
“That’s him?”
“He was a sharpshooter for the Marines,” he says. “His way of relaxing is staring down a scope.”
“Interesting,” I mumble.
“There’s a better view on the roof,” he offers. He holds out a pair of binoculars.
“Sure,” I say. I turn away from the window.
He sucks in a breath. He reaches out and brushes the sleeve of the t-shirt higher, staring at the t-shirt tied around my arm.
“Damn. You rode on the back of Dalton’s motorcycle for four hours like that?”
“Not like I had much of a choice,” I whisper.
“Head up to the roof. There’s a few chairs there, and you can watch D shoot. I’ll grab my kit and be right up.” He walks out of the room and mutters, “Gonna fucking kill that kid.”
It makes me smile.
On the roof, I drag a chair closer to the edge and raise the binoculars to my eyes. It takes me a second to find Dalton and put him into focus. These binoculars have a reading at the bottom, telling me exactly how far away he is. There are other numbers, too, that I don’t understand.
His left arm is bent, gripping on to his right biceps, and his whole body is deathly still before he pulls the trigger. A split second later, the sound hits my ears.
I follow along the range until I find a little target. Its red center is almost obliterated.
“He was the best,” Colin says, emerging from the house. He carries a big red bag with a white logo on it. “Well, he’s probably still one of the best, but he’s more off the radar now than he used to be.”
I nod, watching Dalton slide the bolt back and load in a new cartridge.
“I’m going to roll up your sleeve and cut this bandage off,” he tells me. “How did this happen?”
I put the binoculars down and look at my arm. Colin cuts through the fabric. He takes a sopping wet sponge and soaks my arm, and I almost cry with relief as my ripped t-shirt loosens from the wound.
“Grace?”
I meet Colin’s eyes and clear my throat. The wound is ugly. It bleeds again as he plucks out little fibers with tweezers. “I got shot,” I manage. It throbs, and I grit my teeth. “By your friend—who, for the record, didn’t even tell me his name.”
“Goddamn.” He shakes his head. “I could apologize for him, but I don’t think that would fix much.”
I lift my good shoulder. “Nah, probably not.” When he doesn’t say anything else, I put the binoculars back up to my eyes. “You’re not going to ask what I did to deserve it?”
He chuckles. “We call this Safe Haven for a reason. I try not to pry too much—it makes people shut down.”
I nod. “Yeah. I can see that.”
Dalton is gone, his rifle along with him. A red light flashes on the building, and I find myself wondering if he would turn the scope back toward me—but maybe that’s just the paranoia talking. Colin is probably too close for him to try it.
“I can offer you a small comfort,” he says.
Dalton walks across the range, his rifle resting on his shoulder. His gait is easy and unhurried as he heads back toward the building with a folded paper in his hand.
“He hit your arm on purpose,” Colin says in a low voice.
I glance over at him. “Pretty sure he meant to do a bit more damage.”
“He’s an excellent shot. And unless you were the first one—”
“I wasn’t,” I say. I recall the gunshots, and then the man in the doorway falling backward. “Far from it.”
“There you have it,” he says. “First shot is always cold. Hell, they’re expected to be a fraction off on the first go around. After that, they adjust.”
I exhale. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t make me feel better.”
> “He wasn’t trying to kill you. Or harm you further.”
“I don’t think either of us can guess what he was really thinking,” I answer.
He hands me a bottle of vodka. “Want a swig before I start stitching? It’s going to hurt like a bitch.”
“Ugh.” I close my eyes. “I don’t think I can handle this.”
“Dizzy?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “This whole situation is a disaster. I wanted to get free of the Argentos, and now—I think I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.” I laugh. “He thought he was saving me all those months ago—but he really just put me in the middle of a damn mess.”
“Breathe, Grace.”
I can’t stop the quick breaths. The world spins around me, tilting on its side. Colin grabs my shoulders.
“What the hell did you do to her?” Dalton growls. His voice is muddled, like it’s coming through water. Hands lower me to the ground, and then I’m right back up in the air. “Hang tight, Grace,” Dalton says in my ear.
I barely register the movement. In fact, I barely register anything at all. A darkness settles over me, dragging me into unconsciousness. And I happily let it.
10
DALTON
I carry Grace down the stairs, back to the second floor of the house. Colin always puts the girls in the same room—the one closest to the bathroom—so I head for that. Her jacket is in a crumpled heap on the floor by the bed.
Something comes over me when I look down at her. Her eyes are shut, and her face is relaxed. I know she passed out, but she seems innocent. Normal. Not the scheming bitch she really is.
Colin follows me, watching with a close eye as I set her on the bed. Almost against my will, I reach down and brush her hair off her face.
I take a quick step back, frowning down at her, and then spin around. Colin glares at me, but he doesn’t say anything. He goes to her side and pushes her sleeve back up. He re-sanitizes it, then starts stitching her skin.
“Walk away,” he warns. “Before I get up and punch you in the face for shooting this poor girl.”
