With another deep breath, I gather my tattered self-control and give her a gritty, barely there smile and hand her the bottle. The phone has stopped ringing, but then it starts again.
“You better get that.” Her voice sounds like someone has scratched it with sandpaper. It’s rough and gravelly and sexy as fuck.
“Yeah.” I make no move to answer the phone though. After two rings, the voicemail kicks in and a beep lets me know I have a waiting message.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” she whispers, and then she looks down at her hands that are busy peeling the label off the bottle.
My first instinct is to say it’s no big deal, but it’s a big fucking huge deal so I’m not going to try to sweep it under the sofa like it’s nothing. “I’ve got to make a phone call, but then you and I are going to talk. You’re going to tell my why Gomes keeps coming after you. You’re going to tell me why you won’t let me take you to the embassy. Then we’re going to talk about this morning.”
She nods again and takes a sip of water, looking at me with wet, huge eyes over the plastic container. Looking as if I’m going to drop her off on the side of the road. Rubbing my forehead, I try to find some patience.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Regan. And I don’t want you to use me to hurt you.” I stroke a finger alongside of the back of her hand, and when she doesn’t flinch I squeeze it. “I’m on your side, no matter what. But I can’t fucking help you if you don’t allow me to know what’s going on. I spent weeks looking for you, and I’m telling you right now that I’d rather be dead than allow anything bad to happen to you. So plan on talking when this is all over.”
This causes her to give another little watery gasp, so I back off. I can’t handle another crying bout this morning. My nerves are shot, and I’m sitting on the knife’s edge of insanity with no sleep, a shit ton of guilt, and the worry of Gomes’ men coming and tracking us down. I wasn’t lying when I told Regan that I’d die before I let harm come to her again. I don’t want to hear those broken sounds from her. Not ever again.
Inside the bedroom, I pick up the phone and see that Nick’s called me three more times. I step out onto the fire escape again and pull down the window. This is not a conversation Regan needs to hear. Not yet.
“Is Regan okay?” Daisy answers before the first ring completes its cycle.
“She looks okay. I haven’t taken her to a doctor or anything.” I figured someone at the embassy would take care of that.
“She can go to one when she’s back in Minneapolis,” Daisy muses. “Why isn’t she at the embassy? I thought the plan was to get her and then take her to the U.S. Consulate.”
“Thanks, Daniel, for saving my best friend when you had nothing to do with her kidnapping,” I say a bit sarcastically. When my harsh words are met with silence, I feel like a dick. “Look, sorry. It’s been a tough few days. I took her to the embassy, but she wouldn’t get out of the taxi. Rather than go through a big production by carrying her nearly bare-assed through the front doors, I brought her home with me.”
“How will you get her home, then?”
“I’m taking her over today, but here’s the deal: She’s scared of me and she doesn’t trust me, so how much do you want me to tell her?”
“Everything.”
“Everything? That Nick’s a former Russian hit man and that she was kidnapped because they didn’t know which girl he was boning?”
“Yes, all of that,” Daisy says flatly. “Or I’ll tell her. Put her on the phone.”
“Fine.”
I climb back in and hand the phone over to Regan. “It’s for you.”
She looks at me like there’s snake that will crawl through the earpiece and bite her, but after a moment she reaches out and takes the phone from me.
“Hello?” she asks tentatively.
Nine
Regan
“OH MY GOD, REGAN. IT’S SO good to hear your voice.”
I’m startled to hear her on the other end. “D-Daisy?” She’s the last person I expected. My mind is still back on the sofa, where I more or less tried to rape Daniel.
Oh my god. I’ve become just like those assholes that used me. I feel so revolting, so unclean. I swallow back bile and try to concentrate on the phone.
“It’s me.” Daisy’s sweet, tearful voice makes me feel worse. My roomie, innocent Daisy, is the one that sent Daniel? I don’t understand. Daisy wouldn’t know someone that ran red lights, much less a man that kills people and frequents brothels.
I look over at Daniel, confused. His tired face is lined with anger and hard as he crosses his arms and watches me talk on the phone. He’s pissed. No, he’s beyond pissed. Trying to fuck him was a bad call, and now he’s going to ditch me and that Mr. Freeze guy will be there to scoop me up.
“Thank God,” Daisy is babbling in my ear. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Talk to me.”
I don’t know what to say. “I’m okay.” All my war wounds are on the inside. Physically? I’m dandy. “I’m just . . . confused.”
Daniel grunts and pulls another phone out of his pocket, another burner. How many does this man have? He starts texting, and his gaze flicks to me. “Tell her to start at the beginning.”
I lick my lips—they still taste like bile—and speak, “Daniel says to start at the beginning.”
“Okay.” She exhales loudly, as if steeling herself. “You know Nick? The Ukrainian guy I’ve been dating?”
“Yes.” I haven’t met him personally but I’ve seen him a few times in the hallway of the apartment building, and innocent Daisy is head over heels for the guy.
“He’s a hit man. Or he was. He’s giving it up for me.”
I’m not entirely sure I heard her right. “He’s what?”
“A hit man. An assassin. He used to kill people for a living.” It’s so strange to hear those words come from innocent Daisy’s voice, but she’s not apologetic about it. She accepts it. “Someone killed his mentor, and Nick was hunting him down. That’s why he was in Minneapolis. Well, that and another job. It’s a little complicated.” She’s rushing through the words as if they’re not important. “Nick was being chased by the Russian Mafia—the Bratva. And . . . remember when you had my cellphone? They thought you were me. They were going to take me to force Nick to do their bidding. And I think they kept you because. . .” she hesitated, “you’re pretty.”
I swallow hard, memories flashing forward. Of a scary, hulking blond man showing up at the apartment with the ugly Yury. Yury pushing a needle into my arm, drugging me. Yury ripping my clothing off—
I shake my head to clear it of the horrible memories, but they lurk at the edges of my mind, waiting for a weak moment. They kept you because you’re pretty.
“I . . .” I try to think of what to ask. I’m revolted, and yet I have questions. “How did you get away?”
“Nick saved me,” she says, and I can hear the love in her voice, and the affectionate murmur of a man’s response nearby. “We tried to find you, but . . .” her voice wobbles.
Resentment flares in my gut. I try to bury it, but it’s difficult. I keep silent, lest I say something I regret.
“They sold you off to someone,” Daisy continues. “And then people kept coming after Nick, so we had to go into hiding. We sent Daniel to find you.”
Daniel, who I’ve treated like shit. Who I’ve used, who I’ve done nothing but cry around. I give him another wary look. “He’s a hit man, too?”
“Yes. He’s one of Nick’s friends.”
“Okay.”
“O-okay? Don’t you have more questions?” She sounds confused, like she’s pictured this conversation in her mind a million times and it’s not going the way she wants it to.
“No,” I say flatly. “I’m good.” And I hand the phone back to Daniel.
He cocks an eyebrow, giving me an odd look. Then he takes the phone back, gets to his feet, and stands again. His voice is low. “Daisy, sweetheart, why don’t you put Nikolai back on t
he phone?” A moment later, he switches to a foreign language and begins to spit words out. I don’t catch most of it but I hear Gomes and Regan intermixed with what must be Russian. Or Ukrainian. I don’t know either one. He’s talking about me, and in another language deliberately so I can’t pick up what they’re saying.
I clasp my hands together and stare down at them in my lap. I’m trying not to, but the truth is I’m burning with bitterness at my conversation with Daisy. It sounds like while I was sold into a brothel, she was running back to the United States with her boyfriend in tow, the very same boyfriend that got us into this mess.
And because they couldn’t be bothered, I was left behind for someone else to find.
I’m sure that’s not the full story, of course. If I were rational, it’d make sense to me. But I’m not rational anymore. I’m a freakshow who tries to fuck men—even when they don’t want it—and who cries at the drop of the hat.
They kept you because you’re pretty.
My fingers curl, and I fight the urge to claw my own eyes out, to mark myself up until I’m no longer “pretty” enough to be a whore. Although the way that Daniel looks at me after I tried…well, after what happened maybe no one will want me anyway.
I bet if Daisy had been sold into a brothel, she’d have been retrieved right away. Her dangerous Ukrainian boyfriend would have seen to that. But my boyfriend is Mike. Mike didn’t come for me. No one did.
Until Daniel. And I’ve been awful to him.
As if he knows my thoughts have veered in his direction again, Daniel turns around, barks a quick word into the phone, and then closes it with a snap. It’s clear he’s still seething, but he doesn’t want to lash out at me.
“Sorry,” I murmur, my voice thick. “I know I’m a head case.”
He gives me an exasperated look and then heads for the kitchen. As I watch, he grabs a bottle of some sort of liquor and two glasses. He heads back to the living room, sits on the other end of the sofa, puts the glasses on the end table, and begins to pour two drinks. “Regan, you’ve been through hell in ways I can’t even imagine. No one’s expecting you to be shitting daisies right now. But you and I have to work together to get you out of here, okay? I need to know what’s going on so I can save both of our asses.”
I watch him for a moment and then offer something that’s not quite an apology. “I panicked earlier. That’s why I . . . tried to seduce you. I thought you were going to send me away. I thought you’d like it. I’ve seen you looking at me. And I saw the panties you bought me.” Tears pool in my eyes, and I swipe them away. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was just . . . desperate. I didn’t know what to do. So I just . . . acted. Now I’m as bad as the men at the brothel.” Snot’s running out of my nose and I’m a mess, but I don’t know what to do to make things better. I tried to fix things and I just made them so much worse.
Daniel leaves the room and comes back a moment later with a roll of toilet paper, which he hands to me. I blow my nose and wipe my eyes obediently.
“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “You fucked up. Not gonna lie, I’m more than a little pissed about the situation. Listen,” he hands me a glass of the clear alcohol, “truth is I think you’re gorgeous, okay? But I’m not that big of a dick. I wouldn’t touch you because I know what you’ve been through. You’re safe with me. I bought you girly panties because that was what they were selling at the store I was at and I didn’t want to leave you alone for any longer than necessary. I’m sorry if I sent you the wrong signal. I’m not here to fuck you, okay? I’m here to save your ass.” He downs his drink and lifts the glass in a toast. “However fine it might be.”
A reluctant half-smile touches my mouth. I glance down at my drink and sniff it. It smells . . . strange. “What is this?”
“Local drink of choice. Cachaça,”—he says it like ka-shah-sah—“kinda like rum, kinda not.”
“So why are we drinking?”
“Because I sure as shit need a drink after this morning,” he says, pouring himself another one. “And you need to relax. Now, bottoms up.”
I shrug. He’s right. I do need to relax. I feel like I’ve been in panic mode for the last twenty-four hours. I tilt the glass back and down its contents. At first it tastes a bit like rum, then it explodes into something totally different, and I cough. My throat is raw from all the puking I’ve been doing. “Whoa.”
“Yeah, it’s something else.” He refills my glass with another shot of the cachaça. “Now, drink that and then we’ll talk.”
I suck down the next shot of the cachaça and the alcoholic burn begins to float through my limbs. Normally it would take more than two shots to get me plastered, but I’ve got an empty stomach and the alcohol is strong. I hold my glass out for another shot, and Daniel obliges.
“So,” he asks, “we feeling better now?”
“Better,” I agree. And I am a little better. “Thank you.”
“How come you didn’t want to talk to Daisy?”
I give him a skeptical look. “So the plan is to get me drunk and quiz me?”
“Bingo,” he says, filling my glass again.
I down the newest shot and I’m definitely feeling floaty and relaxed. I notice Daniel has been holding the same full glass while I’ve been pounding them away. Sneaky man. A thought occurs to me and I stiffen. “You’re not getting me drunk so—”
Daniel’s eyes widen. “Christ, no. That fantasy’s a little ruined for me at the moment with that whole you-jumping-me-and-then-puking thing.”
I wince. “Bad call.”
“Yep,” he says flatly.
“Ugh. That was rapey of me.”
“Eh. It makes sense, in a fucked up sort of way. You’re desperate.” He refills my glass before I can ask. “When you’re desperate, you do crazy shit. Been there.”
I muse on his words, languid now that the alcohol is doing its magic. So sex with me was a fantasy, huh? If only he knew. “Probably for the best that the sex fantasy is ruined,” I confide to him. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a few issues.”
He snorts. “Darlin’, you are the poster child for issues.”
I giggle at that, unable to help myself. I should be insulted, but he’s right. I’m all fucked up in the head, and I acknowledge it. Then I sigh, looking down at my glass. “At least it’s just sex I’m messed up about. It’s not like I’m missing out.”
“Do tell.”
I peer over at him and am reminded he’s rather good-looking. He’s got that all-American boy thing going for him. I’d have totally crushed on him if I’d had a class with him back at college. “It’s not like it was great before, you know? Never had an orgasm with a guy. Pretty sure it’s bullshit.”
Daniel groans. “You are positively killing me here, Regan.”
“Why?”
He shakes his head. “Change of subject. Why were you short with Daisy?”
I lick the rim of my glass since he’s not refilling it. Maybe I should stay drunk for the next month. “Because I didn’t want to be mean to her.”
“Why would you be mean to her?”
“Because she got away,” I whisper. “She got away and left me. Everyone left me.” I swallow hard and put my glass down. Then I look at Daniel. “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”
“I’m not, sweetheart. You have my word on that.” He looks at me thoughtfully and then downs his drink. “But you need to tell me why you won’t go to the embassy. What’s there that scares you?”
“I saw a man,” I whisper. “Mr. Freeze’s bodyguard.”
“Mr. Freeze? Arnold Schwarzenegger? Like . . . from the shitty Batman movies?”
I shake my head and rub my arms, as if chilled. I’m not warm and toasty from the alcohol anymore. “The blond guy. The scary one. He buys girls. He bought me. He sent me to Rio to be ‘broken in.’ They can be as rough with me as they want, as long as they don’t mess up my face, wear condoms, and make sure I brush my teeth.”
> “Your . . . teeth? Wear condoms?”
I rub a finger over my front teeth thoughtfully. “I think he has a hygiene fetish. He’d come and visit me at the brothel. Wouldn’t fuck me. Just put on plastic gloves before he touched me and looked me over. Asked them if they shaved me. Everything.” I shiver. “He scares me.”
“Maybe he’s a germophobe.”
I shake my head, remembering the bodyguard that was with him. “Everyone’s scared of him. Even Senhor Gomes.”
“So some rich guy has a fixation on you. Sends you to Gomes for what? Training? I guess that explains the use of condoms and good hygiene and why Gomes wants you back.” He doesn’t look happy with this news. “And you said you saw him at the embassy?”
“His bodyguard.” I shiver again, unable to help myself, and I realize for the first time that I’m sitting on the couch in nothing but my bra. Whoops.
Daniel notices my shivering and pulls the blanket around me, tucking it around me like he would a child. “Good to know. I’ll make a few calls and see if I can find out what’s going on. And then we’re going to have to move.”
“Move?” I blink at him, still drunk from the cachaça. “Why?”
“Because they’re going to know we’re in the area once they find out I killed Gomes’ little scout.” He says it so casually, like someone would comment on the weather. “We’re safe for now, but tonight we need to move on.”
I hug the blanket closer. “And you’ll take me with you?”
“I’m afraid you’re all mine until we figure out what the deal is.” He rubs his neck and looks agitated, but not at me. “It’s a goddamn mess, isn’t it?”
“Can I get a gun?”
He gives me a speculative look. “Do you promise to stop crying?”
“I will, if you get me a gun. Then I’ll shoot you if I get upset.”
For some reason, this makes him laugh. “I think we can manage that.”
Last Breath Page 8
