by S. Massery
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.”
I smile. “You sound like you’re gearing up to go to war.”
“May as well be.”
I lean forward and kiss his forehead. I don’t know why I do it, because it feels way too… loving. We’re not there. We’re just two people who like each other enough to have sex.
Yet his whole face softens, and the shadow of a smile on his face is sad.
He finally closes his eyes, and I watch over him until his breathing deepens. I push my fingers through his hair. I watch him sleep and my heart aches.
Eventually, he flips onto his back. His breathing has been even for some time now, his face scowl-free, and the sky is lightening.
I slide out of bed and hunt for clothes of my own, through my bags. It feels like we were at Safe Haven forever ago, although it hasn’t been more than a few days. My fingers land on my last clean pair of socks—where I’ve also conveniently been hiding the ring. I put it in my pants pocket and put on the socks, carrying my boots down the stairs. Last I knew, the evidence against Marco was with Dalton. I trust that he’s kept it safe, although it hasn’t occurred to me to confirm that he still has it.
In the kitchen, a girl I haven’t met yet is at the stove.
She turns toward me, breaking out in a big smile. “Good morning! You must be Grace?”
I nod. “Hi… uh…”
“Delia,” she says, coming closer with her hand extended. “Jackson’s wife,” she supplies.
“Oh. I thought you weren’t…”
Hadley had mentioned that Jackson made her stay home. She’s pregnant, Hadley had whispered.
“Weren’t able to make it?” Delia scowls at the ceiling. “No, no, I just wasn’t able to make the flight down with the boys. They’re irrational and like to jump into things. I work with Hadley at the library, and…”
“And you’re feeding her stories already,” Hadley says, sneaking up behind me.
Delia grins and jumps forward, wrapping her arms around Hadley.
“Okay, well, yeah. Sorry, Grace. They didn’t want me to come because of the baby, but then Hadley called me…”
Hadley looks away. “Do not blame me. I just called to say that you might get along well with Grace, and…”
“And here I am,” she says. “Jackson’s gonna be so surprised.”
“Surprised as in, pissed?” I ask.
“Your food is burning,” Hadley says. She takes the spatula out of Delia’s hand and goes to the pan, flipping something and turning down the burner.
“Yeah, probably pissed and secretly relieved.” Delia leans toward me. “So, you managed to wrangle Dalton into a relationship, huh?”
I jerk back. “No.”
“What? Hadley, you said Grace and Dalton—”
“Well, the whole place heard them having sex last night,” Hadley answers.
Both girls share devious grins, then they turn to me.
Delia is still watching me. “How was it?”
I look around, searching for an escape route. “Um….”
“You don’t seem very comfortable,” Delia says. She purses her lips for a second, then goes to the coffee pot. “Coffee? That usually makes any morning better.”
“I don’t talk about…” Any of this.
Hadley brings over two plates, shoving them at us with utensils. Eggs and bacon. My mouth waters. I juggle my plate and the cup of coffee, following Delia to the table. Hadley joins us a second later.
“So, spill it,” Delia says. “Or one of us can go first.”
I gesture for her to begin, because I’m at a loss.
“Grew up the daughter of a mafia family leader,” Delia says. “Got a bitchy stepmom, had to deal with a creepy consigliere—Dad’s advisor, basically—and eventually there was a coup. A rival family killed mine, almost killed me. I ran away, and that’s how I met Jackson.”
“Bitch, that’s the watered-down version,” Hadley says. “There were a lot more guns involved. Anyway, I knew Griffin as a kid. He protected me. He came back a few years after I was diagnosed with leukemia, basically called me a dumbass and dumped me on an island to get treatment.” She shrugs. “And then he came back and proved that while the treatment wasn’t a mistake, leaving me to deal with it alone was.”
“And she left out the evil bad guy who kidnapped her and poisoned her,” Delia says, pointing at Hadley with her fork.
“Okay, your turn.”
I grimace. “Um, I don’t really know. Dad is—or was—a mob boss’s enforcer. I kept stepping out of line, according to them, so they told me I had to marry the boss’s son. Dalton… rescued me a few times from all of that.”
The ring in my pocket feels like lead.
“She forgot the part where said family almost sold her into slavery and her dad tortured me,” Dalton says in a dry voice. He comes over and sits next to me, staring from Hadley to Delia and back to me. “They intimidating you?”
I snort. “No.”
“Good.”
He takes my fork and spears a bite of egg. “Delicious.”
“That’s all Delia,” I say. “Well, Hadley kept it from burning.”
He pretends to gag, grabbing on to his throat. “I take that back. It’s heinous.”
“Asshole,” Delia mutters.
“Why do I hear Delia’s voice?” Jackson comes into view, and Delia slinks down into her seat. “Ah, because my wife decided to come after all.”
I watch with wide eyes as Jackson comes over to the table, leaning over Delia. Sudden nerves crackle through me. It’s like I snap back in time, watching my father loom over my mother. Such a memory wasn’t even real until now, but it crystalizes in my mind.
I jerk upright, my chair scraping back. “Don’t touch her!”
Everyone blinks at me, shocked, and shame burns through me faster than gasoline on fire. Maybe I misread that.
I bolt.
28
DALTON
I think I underestimated Grace’s survival instincts. Clearly, she’s seen some shit.
Jackson, Delia, and Hadley are frozen for a moment. Grace looks around, eyes wild, before she gets up and rushes away from the table. I expect her to go upstairs, to lock herself in our room like Delia once did when she confronted Griffin for the first time.
Instead, she snatches her boots from the floor and a set of keys off a hook near the door, and out into the wild she goes.
“Did she think I was going to hit you?” Jackson asks.
Delia shrugs. “We don’t know what kind of home she grew up in. Maybe her mother’s outspokenness was crushed by force.”
I flinch, finally getting up from the table. I shove away the exhaustion still lingering in my bones. Part of me thinks she’ll still be in the driveway, beating at the steering wheel, but no.
The car, and Grace, are gone.
I jog into the street, trying to catch a glimpse of her. I waited too long, and now there’s no trace of her. Storming back inside, I march up the stairs and hammer on Mason’s door.
He opens it after a few seconds, glaring holes through me. “What the fuck?”
“Grace ran away.”
His eyes narrows, and then he steps back into his room. A second later, he comes back out with his laptop in his hand. We go downstairs, and Mason takes Grace’s seat at the table.
“She took one of the SUVs,” I say.
There’s a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow. Mason opens the laptop, not speaking.
“Can you—”
“If you shut up and let me concentrate, yes.”
“How—”
“These newer vehicles are all equipped with GPS.” Mason glances up. “Jackson, go tell me the license plate number of the one still here.”
He goes to the window and reads off the number.
“Got it.”
He types in a different number onto a black map with green lines, and I push in closer.
Jackson puts his hand on my
shoulder. “Let him work.”
I grimace and force myself to sit. My foot taps. My whole body is sore—sorer than I would’ve hoped.
“Griffin and Zach are still sleeping?” I ask.
Jackson eyes me. “It’s only six o’clock.”
I roll my eyes. “Six? You get up at five. Don’t pretend to be grumpy because—”
“Vegas is three hours behind Florida time.” Mason’s fingers fly across the keyboard. “Just shut up.”
I cross my arms over my chest. Hadley is eyeing me with concern, but she stands and slips out of the room without a word. Time crawls as Mason works, and finally—I say finally, but it’s probably only been five minutes—he has a location. A park near the water.
I jump up, rushing to the door.
Jackson follows close behind me. “Delia, stay here. Mason, call me with updates if she moves.”
We get in the car and speed off.
“You okay, man?” Jackson asks.
Us alone in a car together, when I’m feeling particularly punchy, isn’t a great idea. I flex my hands on the steering wheel.
“I’m just…” I could tell him about the nightmares. “You know that saying? When you hear hoofbeats, assume horses?”
“Yeah.” He frowns.
“Well, I hear a loud bang, I assume gunshots. Even on the fourth of July. Because that’s my normal.”
“But you’re back in the States,” he says. “It’s okay to let that guard down a bit.”
I grit my teeth. “That’s the thing. I can’t. I work security and have to think about vantage points, how someone might get to my client, line of sight. And when nothing bad happens, and a car backfires in the middle of the night…”
He exhales. “You never mentioned that.”
I shrug. “Didn’t want to be fucking needy.”
“You were always so chill, we figured… I figured that you were okay.” He thinks he’s the fucking leader since Wyatt faked his death. He was the second-in-command, so it’s natural that he assume the leadership position… until he abandoned ship entirely.
But I don’t say that. I just keep my eyes on the road, speeding toward where I hope Grace is. Unless she ditched the car.
“She seemed scared,” Jackson says. “For Delia.”
“I don’t know what that’s about,” I say, “but she’s been through a shit ton. Her mom abandoning her, a crazy violent father and pseudo-uncle, not to mention Marco, who has been tormenting her for years.”
“So you two are meant to be, then.”
I laugh, and it only hurts a lot. I press one hand against my ribs. “I couldn’t settle for anyone normal, that’s for fucking sure.”
We get to the park. Mason texts that her location hasn’t changed, and Jackson and I climb out of the car. We find the other SUV with relative ease, except for the fact that it’s empty.
I pull my gun and double check it, sliding it back into its holder in the small of my back. Jackson does the same, then we both scan the park.
The glimmer of dark-gold hair, facing the water, catches my attention.
I zone in, automatically moving toward her, when Jackson grabs my arm.
“Stop,” he orders, shaking me. “Look.”
Only then does my gaze sweep over the rest of the bench, and the man half turned in her direction.
“Marco,” I growl. “I’m gonna fucking kill—”
“Easy,” Jackson says. “There are kids here. You can’t just shoot someone—”
“Watch me.”
“Let me assess the situation,” he says. “You stay back here. Get a line of sight on him if it makes you feel better.”
“It would if I had my rifle,” I mutter, but I do as he says. I use one of the cars for cover and put his head in my sight. Grace is too close for comfort, so I steady my hand.
Jackson wanders over. My heart stops beating, but Marco just stands. He stares down at Grace, as if waiting for her to move. She’s stuck, caught between Marco and Jackson.
“Grace!” I yell.
I shove my gun back in the holster and run.
Grace sees me, eyes widening. She steps up onto the seat of the bench, puts her other foot on the top, and springs over it. She sprints in my direction and crashes into me. I whip her behind me. Jackson already has his gun out, trained on Marco.
The snake puts his hands up, backing away.
“Easy,” he says to Jackson.
Marco’s voice floats toward us, even as I guide Grace toward the cars. Her grip on me is tight.
“You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”
“He threatened to kill you in your sleep,” Grace mumbles.
I turn around and pick her up, if only to be able to hold her closer.
“Not gonna happen,” I say.
I put her in the car, and we watch through the glass as Marco turns and leaves. Jackson lowers his weapon, but he remains stock-still until Marco is out of sight.
Jackson comes over, and Grace holds up the keys to the other car.
“I’m sorry,” she says to him.
He takes the keys from her, eyes soft. He’s always been the nicest of all of us. The most forgiving. Her assumption probably hurt like a brick to the head, but he wouldn’t tell her that. “It’s okay. I’ll see you both in a few.”
We sit in the car for another minute, watching Jackson roll past us. Finally, I put it in gear and drive back to the house.
“I don’t think I can go back in there,” she says.
“I know the feeling,” I say. “I usually go against my discomfort, though.” I open my door, waiting for her to follow suit.
Once she circles around the car to stand near me, I hold out my hand.
She takes it. Instead of leading her into the house, I lead her down the street. Toward the ocean.
“How’d he find you?” I ask once we’re on the soft sand. It’s early enough that the beach is nearly empty. There’s a few runners, but they’re in the distance.
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I squint at her, looking up and down her body. “Tracker?”
“We’ve been over this.”
“It might be in your clothes,” I say, staring out toward the water. We inch closer to it. “It could be small enough that you don’t even realize it’s on you. We might’ve missed it.”
“I don’t—”
She shakes her head, but I lean down and toss her over my shoulder. I’m reminded of last night, the way her whole body quivered. Except now, I’m on a mission.
“Dalton Kavanaugh,” she snaps. “What the hell—”
I walk right into the ocean. No fear. A wave crashes against my legs, sending a cool spray of water up my front. Another wave hits, pushing me back a couple steps, and then we’re past the breaking point.
I dump her into the water.
She comes up sputtering, swinging at me. I grab her wrists and pull her close, ignoring the fire in her eyes. “Now, now, Grace.”
I pat her down. Her shirt, slick and plastered to her skin, her wet jeans that she took from my mom’s house. Her boots, thankfully absent of the flash drive. I run my hands up her thighs, and something hard in her pocket.
I freeze.
“Dalton—”
I slide my fingers into her pocket and withdraw the ring Marco gave her.
My whole body gets hot. She closes her eyes, turning her face away, as I stare at the diamond.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Grace Jones?” My voice is low.
“I was going to get rid of it,” she says.
“I’ll show you how to fucking get rid of it.” I wind up and chuck it as hard as I can farther into the ocean. My breath comes in short spurts. My ribs are on fire, along with the stitches. “See? Easy.”
She shakes her head, tears in her eyes. “Isabella gave it back to me at Colin’s. I was going to leave it there, but then…”
I start to storm out of the water, but I pause and turn back around. She kept his r
ing. “Do you secretly want him? Is this your way of getting him to fight for you?”
She splashes me. “Of course not.”
I shake my head. The pain becomes a steady throbbing. I’m pretty sure the stitches I wasn’t supposed to get wet have come undone. Everything hurts like a betrayal.
“You’re killing me.” I walk out of the water, back to the house.
Everyone is downstairs when I come in, dripping wet. They lapse into silence, but I don’t give them the pleasure of an explanation.
I go into the bathroom and strip out of my wet clothes, pausing only to look at the stitches that popped out. Watery blood drips down my skin. I blot it dry and pull on a clean shirt and pants, lifting my rifle case from where it was lying next to my duffle bag. I go from room to room, finally finding the drop-down staircase to the attic.
Even if it’s unfinished, hot and humid, it’ll be better up there than down here.
Silence and solitude. That’s all I need. That’s all I want, because clearly Grace doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.
29
GRACE
I take a deep breath and walk back into the house. Don’t really want to, but I’m sopping wet and don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t have anyone else to call, either. That’s the part that stings the most.
I kicked off my boots and poured the water out of them already. They’ll take a day to dry if I’m lucky. The pants and shirt, maybe more, maybe less. I had stolen another pair from Dalton’s mom, so there’s that.
I seem to go into the ocean in my clothes a lot.
This is the first time my whole head got submerged, and I have sand everywhere.
The room goes quiet for a second when I push the door open, and then Hadley and Delia are on me, patting my arms. I wince when one of them hits my stitches, and they shove my sleeve up.
“Griffin,” Hadley says. “Can you…”
He comes over and peeks under the bandage, wincing. My skin is red and inflamed. “These stitches should’ve come out by now,” he mutters. “Who did this to you?”
