by Shandi Boyes
A jolting spasm rockets up my arm when he places his hand on the crook of my elbow. Muted by my body’s insane reaction to this mysterious stranger’s touch, I allow him to guide me through the vast throng of people milling about the space without a word spilling from my lips. . .
I lift my eyes to Rico. My heart squeezes when I see the same pair of dark, beautiful eyes from my memory staring back at me. “Where did we go?” My weak voice displays the hammering of my heart.
A grin curls on the edge of his lips, sending my heart rate skyrocketing. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen etched on his face. It’s nearly as striking as his dark eyes.
“We went to the bathroom.”
After tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear, he stands from the bed and places me onto my feet. I try to hold in my disappointed groan, but it escapes my lips involuntarily.
"One memory at a time, Kitten," he responds to my whine, believing it was only based on my interest in unraveling my lost memories. It wasn't. The Rico standing before me intrigues me just as much as extracting my lost memories.
My brows scrunch when he strides to the bedroom door, opens it, and gestures with his head for me to leave. “I have some business I need to take care of before we land.”
My heart smashes into my ribs when the first half of our conversation dawns on me.
“You’re not going to do anything to Timothy, are you?” I span the distance between us, my steps shaky, hindered by a pair of wobbly legs.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to, Kitten” Rico replies before slapping me on the backside.
His spank is so hard it pushes me into the central section of the private jet. Defying my jello legs, I pivot around to face him. Just like in my memory, his eyes relay his intentions without a word needing to flow from his plump lips.
My mouth twitches, dying to spill the objections my brain is screaming, but no matter how hard I fight, not a word escapes my parched lips. Taking my silence as confirmation I want him to execute revenge on Timothy for drugging me, Rico winks before shutting the bedroom door.
Oh. My. Lord.
What did I just do?
Chapter 10
Guilt consumes the next hour of our trip. Do I believe what Timothy did was wrong? Yes, without a doubt. Do I believe he should be punished for what he did? Yes, more to stop it happening to another woman than anything else. Do I want that punishment issued by a member of the Las Vegas mob? No, not at all.
With my stomach twisted in knots, I stand from my seat and make my way back to the main bedroom of the private jet. My beliefs the past hour have never altered; it has just taken me this long to build up the courage to go against a man who equally frightens and intrigues me. But I need to do this. If I ever want the chance to rescue Rico from the blackness, I can’t let him make heinous decisions no man has the right to make. Timothy will one day meet his maker, but until then, there are legal ways justice can be served.
Not bothering to knock, I enter the room. Rico is sitting back behind the desk, speaking into his cell phone. Even not understanding a word he’s saying, I can tell his temper is short-fused. The veins in his thick biceps are bulging, his jaw is clenched, and his entire composure is screaming blatant fury. My hesitation to approach him only lasts as long as it takes for me to recall Timothy’s youngest son only turned two last month. He's a baby.
Just like earlier, Rico’s eyes follow me as I cross the room to stand in front of him, except this time, his gaze isn’t filled with anger. His eyes are brimming with downright fury. Overlooking the feverish agitation beaming out of him in invisible waves, I remove the cell phone from his grasp, disconnect his call, and throw his phone onto a stack of papers on his desk.
The furious tick impinging his jaw amplifies when I lower onto my knees and peer up into his eyes. “Please, I'm begging you, Enrique. Don’t do this. I may not remember you, but my heart does. It knows there's more to you than this lifestyle. It knows you're a good man. Don’t break its confidence.”
If I thought his eyes were violent before, it's nothing compared to how they look now. I don’t know if his anger originates from me pleading to him on my knees or from the fact I called him Enrique for the first time.
“You're willing to fall to your knees and beg for mercy for the man who drugged you?” he snarls, his voice the most malicious I’ve heard.
With tears welling in my eyes, I nod.
“He was going to rape you, Blaire! Do you understand that?”
“Yes. I'm aware of that,” I reply, nodding. “But he has a wife and three small children—”
“Children he doesn’t deserve to have!” His angry voice startles me enough I jump.
He pushes his chair back from his desk and stands with his fists clenched at the side of his body, his face lined with anger. Fear unlike anything I’ve ever felt races through my veins. My fear isn’t because I believe he will hurt me. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I truly believe he means me no harm. My fear is for Timothy and his family.
“I'm not saying he doesn’t deserve to be punished for what he did. He does. But not like this. Not unlawfully.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what he was planning to do to you!” The bite of agony in his voice sets me on edge. “If you hadn’t fallen into my lap, you would have fallen into a shallow ditch.”
Dread clutches my throat, squeezing so hard, I can’t inhale an entire breath. “What?”
Rico runs his hand across the scruff on his chin before snatching a pile of papers off the printer sitting on his desk. His dark, haunted eyes stare into mine for numerous seconds before he hands the printouts to me. I hesitate, wary of the concern beaming from his eyes.
A shake encroaches my hands as I drop my eyes to the photos I’m clasping for dear life. My spare hand shoots up to cover my mouth when my stomach lurches in protest of the ghastly images reflecting at me. Although each picture has a unique backdrop, the theme of the photos is horrifyingly similar. They all contain the body of a woman in her early to mid-twenties lying lifeless in a shallow grave.
I raise my eyes to Rico. He’s watching me cautiously. Although his face is lined with anger, I now realize his anger isn’t directed at me. It’s for the monster who did this heinous act to these poor defenseless women.
“Who did this?” I ask, my voice quieter than a hushed whisper.
“Timothy,” Rico replies without pause, his voice deep and teemed with anger.
I shake my head, refusing to acknowledge that a family man could ever be responsible for such atrocious acts. This is not something a married father of three would do. This is the deed of a horrible person with a black soul.
He crouches down in front of me and removes the papers and photos from my hand. He lays the pictures out in a pattern similar to a timeline on the varnished wooden floors. My heart breaks when my eyes roam over six beautiful ladies who lost their lives way too early.
“Annie Rogers was killed on May tenth last year.” Rico points to a police image of a lady with long caramel hair buried in a shallow grave in front of a mountain landscape. “Timothy attended a conference in her hometown the same weekend.”
He taps on the second image. “Clarissa Enrode was killed July thirtieth. Timothy was a guest speaker at her university the same weekend.”
For each name he goes through, my heart cracks more.
"Could it be a coincidence?" I lock my moisture-filled eyes with his. "There has to be some explanation. Some. . .” My words drown out when I fail to find a legitimate reason as to why Timothy would be at each location on the exact dates the women were killed.
Panic roars through my veins when Rico says, “There are surveillance tapes matching yours for each girl in each town. He drugged them, raped them, then killed them.” His dark eyes settle on mine. “If you didn’t fall into my lap, he would have done the same thing to you.”
My heart stings when the undeniable facts he has displayed crashes
into me. I sit on the floorboards, my stomach churning with fear and grief. I had danced with the devil and once again escaped with my life. These beautiful women weren’t as lucky.
My throat tightens painfully as I try to hold in my devastating sobs dying to break free. My efforts are fruitless. Nothing can keep in my despair. I thought life as I’d known it ended when I stumbled into Rico's lap. Little did I know it was only just beginning.
The instant the first whimper escapes my parched lips, Rico scoops me into his arms. I cling to his white dress shirt when he moves us to sit on the edge of the bed. Tears flood my cheeks as the disturbing images play on repeat in my mind. I know why Rico had to show me the photos—I would have never believed him otherwise—but now I wish I’d never seen them. It's a set of memories I’d give anything to forget.
Rico doesn't speak a word; he just runs his hand over my back in a circular motion until I eventually give in to unconsciousness.
Several hours later, I wake up startled and confused, and for the first time in years, without the body-havocking effects of a nightmare. I'm lying in bed with my back pressed against the warmth of a body. Just from the spicy scent alone, I know it's Rico sleeping next to me, but the way every nerve in my body has sparked is another clear indication. Unlike when I entered the room earlier, it's void of any light, natural or unnatural. Since the shutters on the windows are closed, I can't tell if it's night or if the plane is sitting in a dark airport hangar.
After giving myself a few minutes to gather my bearings, I carefully roll onto my opposite hip, not wanting to wake Rico. A breathless squeal squeaks between my lips when I'm met with his dark and beautiful gaze. He's awake and staring straight at me.
“How long have you been awake?” My voice is scratchy from the rawness of my throat.
He brushes a bunch of unruly hairs off my face. "I didn't sleep.”
My brows furrow. "Then why are you lying in bed with me?"
A flare of emotion passes through his eyes, renewing my hope that I didn't lose all rational thoughts when I was drugged. Although I'm sure my laced drink impeded my usually astute brain, while peering into the eyes of the stranger lying across from me, I realize it wasn't just drugs ruling my decisions last week. Part of it was my heart. What I said to him earlier was true. I don’t know him, but my heart does.
Rico takes his time configuring a response to my question. Just when I think he isn’t going to answer, he mutters, “You whimpered every time I moved.”
I have no chance of holding in my smile, so I let it break free. “You stayed with me so I wouldn’t wake?” Disbelief and a small dash of glee is evident in my tone.
Peering into my eyes, he nods.
“How long?” When he looks at me, confused, I add on, “How long did you stay with me?”
He checks the time on his watch. “A little over four hours.”
My heart skips a beat. Dark Rico intimidates me, but knowing he stayed with me for four hours exposes a side to him I don’t think many people have witnessed: the light side.
“Why does this feel so familiar?”
He smiles a vain grin. “Because it is,” he replies before tugging on a strand of my hair.
Although hazy, the faintest memory creeps into my mind from his playfulness. . .
My heavy eyelids slowly flutter open before drifting around the opulent room to absorb the rich antique furniture and beautiful chandelier hanging from the ceiling rose. My observant gaze has me stumbling onto an even more beautiful sight: a pair of dark and alluring eyes.
“I fell asleep again, didn’t I?” My voice is hoarse and my words lazy.
The corners of Rico’s lips tug into a grin as he nods. "Only for twenty minutes this time," he replies, pulling a strand of my hair playfully.
While stretching leisurely, a glimmer of light captures my attention. Smiling, I lower my left hand and inspect my newly added accessory: a ruby and diamond platinum wedding band.
“It’s so beautiful.”
Rico props himself onto his elbow and peers down into my light green eyes. “Not as beautiful as you.”
Even with a broad smile stretched across my face, I can’t stifle a big yawn. I'm exhausted.
“Sleep if you're tired, Kitten.” Rico runs his hand down the side of my face. “I'll be here when you wake. . .”
I prop my elbow onto the satin pillowcase and rest my weighted head onto my open palm. “Did you sleep at all the night we got married?”
Rico smiles a similar grin to the one in my memory before shaking his head.
“Why not?” I grimace when my overly girly voice bounces around the quiet room.
“Because I didn’t want to wake up to find out it was all a dream.” His voice so faint, I barely heard what he said.
Heat expands across my chest, filling some of the cracks that formed in my heart the past week. I want to say something to ease the confused look on Rico’s face, but I can’t think of a single phrase that would be appropriate in this situation. It's so… odd. Although the man before me is technically a stranger, he also seems so familiar. Is that even possible?
“Other than the snippets of memories you unearthed tonight, how many others have you had?” He tries to hold in the eagerness of his words. He fails.
I slip my hand under the satin pillow and rest my inflamed cheek on the cool softness. “None.”
I’d like to elaborate on my response, but there's no need. Everything was said with that one little word.
“Why don’t I have any memories?”
In less than a nanosecond, the smile on Rico's face vanishes, and a new expression settles in its place. It's the same unapproachable look he was wearing when deciding Timothy's fate.
“Because Timothy gave you a drug known on the black market as ‘club drug.’ Due to its strong amnesia-based product, most victims have limited recollection of their assault.”
My brows furrow. “If he was planning to kill me, why would it matter if I had any memories?”
"The drug isn't just used as a date rape drug; it’s also used as a party drug. Rohypnol is regularly taken by teens to get high. To some individuals, it has the same effect as heroin or cocaine. It's the reason you were more. . . carefree the weekend we married. Your insecurities vanished.”
His words are informative and clear, until the end. His last two sentences come out heavily laced with confusion.
“Can you see a difference between the Blaire you met last week and the one before you now?”
His tongue delves out to replenish his lips before he murmurs, “No. But it’s not a drug steering your decisions now. It’s fear.”
“I’m not scared of you, Rico,” I splutter out, allowing my heart to overrule my head.
“You should be, Kitten.” He's so quiet; if I didn’t see his lips move, I wouldn’t have known he’d spoken.
A stretch of silence crosses between us. I wouldn't say it's awkward, more necessary. The flight over this side of the country was only five hours long, but it feels like five months have passed. So many life-altering decisions have been made during our trip. But my biggest worry is that the most imperative one wasn't made by me. It was made for me.
“What will happen to Timothy’s family?”
Rico’s dark eyes stare directly into mine. “Nothing. As far as his family is concerned, Timothy will just vanish without a trace.”
My eyes burn as a new batch of tears well into my eyes. My tears are not for Timothy; they are for his wife and children who will be left wondering what happened to him. For some people, that can be more upsetting than learning the ill fate of their loved ones. When a life is lost, you never forget, but you get to grieve and to try and move on. But not knowing what happened, you can’t get closure. You spend your entire life scanning strangers’ faces wondering if one day you will spot them in the crowd; or every time the phone rings, you ponder if it will be the call you've been waiting for the past ten years. The people who are left wondering what happened have
no chance of closure, and no chance of healing.
I lock my eyes with his. “What about the victims’ families?” I ask, incapable of reining in my desire to lessen their grief.
Rico’s heavy brows stitch. He looks angry… or perhaps even stumped by my question.
“What about them?” His tone is knee-shaking low.
“Don’t they deserve to know justice was served?”
Rico’s lips set into a firm, straight line before he shakes his head.
“Why not? They deserve to know. They have the right to know.” My voice gets louder and angrier with every sentence I speak. I can see his anger brewing in his dark eyes, but it doesn't dampen my pleas the slightest. "Someone they loved was killed! They have suffered enough; they shouldn't have to live their life wondering if they are walking amongst a killer. Give them peace, Rico. Give them closure."
“That's not the way it works in this industry, Kitten. It's not my job to—”
“Why? Because the mob doesn’t have a heart? They don’t understand compassion?!”
“No, they don’t!” His loud voice vibrates my heart right out of my chest. “They’ll slit your throat without a second thought and dump you in an acid bath before sitting down to enjoy a meal. Their stomachs won’t twist. Their hearts won’t feel pain. They will feel nothing. That's the type of men you're dealing with, Kitten, and believing any differently will only get you killed.”
His chest is heaving up and down so violently, it competes with mine with every breath he takes.
“If you want any chance of coming out of this alive, Blaire, you need to learn your place. Women are seen, not heard; your body is a valuable commodity, not your mind, and you're to never voice your opinion unless it's asked. And even then, your replies should echo your male counterpart.”
He stares into my eyes, ensuring I'm aware the words he's speaking are nothing but gospel.
Satisfied I've absorbed his warning, he rolls out of bed and puts on his suit jacket. I remain still, muted by shock. In a matter of seconds, the man who spent hours comforting me has been replaced by a cold-hearted, emotionless stranger. His eyes are bleak, his jaw clenched, and the stern mask he wears when surrounded by his crew has slipped back into place.
