Shadow Man: Grayson Duet: Book One

by Wiltcher, Catherine

  “I don’t need your help locating her, Sanders,” I say, articulating every word to drive my point home. “That’s my fucking job.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing in my house?” He slams his palms into my chest, shoving me away. “I’ll give you ten seconds to get the hell out of here before my gun is so far up your ass you’ll be cleaning bullets with your teeth.” He pushes me again, and I take it without stumbling. It takes a lot to bring me down.

  “Is that all you got, Brooklyn?” I sneer.

  “Go fuck yourself.” Another shove. “Slink back into Dante’s shadow where you belong. Playing with the big boys doesn't suit your job description.”

  “Tell every dealer in the state to keep a thirty-yard distance,” I say, pushing back on him to even up the posturing.

  “From who? Miss Phantom?” Rick steadies himself, his eyes now fresh warning slits, but I’m done paying attention. “You’re the asshole who lost her, remember?”

  “I mean it, Sanders. If I hear one of your fucking friends has sold her coke again, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Applaud us for bringing a snort or two of joy into what’s left of her life?” He shakes his head at me, his smirk re-merging like some kind of messed up sunshine. “Don’t forget who dragged her into hell in the first place, Joseph. She was having fun pouring drinks in my club and kissing boys in cars before you and Dante brought your war to her doorstep. Have you told her why she was taken yet?”

  “This is a polite request,” I say, struggling to keep my cool—almost tasting the cheap thrill of his blood messing up his Persian Mashad rug. “The next one won’t be so pleasant.”

  Rick scoffs at my threat. “Does the King of Colombia know you’re pissing all over his business relationships like this?”

  “Leave Dante out of it. This is between you and me.”

  A heavy silence follows. A new war of attrition.

  “Christ, I need another drink,” says Rick, yielding first.

  That makes two of us.

  I trail behind him into a study lined with literature I’ll never read, and watch him pour a couple of whiskeys. I take his conciliation offer without thanks, knocking it back in one.

  “Tell me something, Grayson,” he says, leaning back against the studded mahogany desk, swilling his drink and watching me closely. “Why the John Lennon circa Jealous Guy act? Are you hoping to sample her pussy like a fine wine, or drag her back to your cave by her hair like the goddamn animal I know you really are?”

  “Get the message out to both your dealers and suppliers,” I say tersely, returning the empty glass to the sideboard. “And the same goes for you. Stay the hell away from her. She’s my problem, not yours.”

  But Rick’s sensed a weakness. He’s a tiger again, swatting for the kill.

  “Is it the guilt that gets you hard or the thrill of unbreaking the broken?” he muses. “Or maybe she reminds you of your dearly departed—?”

  “I’m done here.” I swipe my hand across my jaw and turn for the door. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “So soon?” His sarcasm trails me out into the foyer. “Such a pity when I have a spare whore upstairs who’s been dying to suck your dick for the right price.”

  “All out of dollars.”

  “Blonde hair, big blue eyes, a body made for sin…” Rick’s mouth is positively curling with malice. “Dante’s brother, Emilio, was convinced you liked them doe-eyed and docile, but I’m not so sure. I reckon you need them as fucked up as you are, you kinky piece of shit.”

  You have no idea.

  I’m reaching for the front door when he appears next to me with a vulturine look on his face.

  “You are everything that is wrong inside of her, Grayson,” he purrs, aiming his words low and off-center to my chest. “You represent the very hell she’s running from... What makes you think you can do her any kind of right?”

  “Because that’s what I’m good at, asshole,” I mutter, stepping outside and slamming the door shut in his face. I make shit right. Be it with my gun, my dick or the fucked-up wasteland that used to be my heart.

  9

  Anna

  I arrive at Rafael Núñez International Airport at around seven a.m., local time, with nothing but my black overnight bag, two hundred dollars in pesos and a fake smile that’s making my teeth hurt. My sense of shock is so strong I can’t stop shaking. It’s everything. It’s the aftermath from leaving the way I did, from the attempted rape, from my shadow’s equally violent reprieve...

  I wish I felt guilt, but I don’t. My final scraps of that emotion were slammed up against the wall in that alleyway. Their rough fingers violated the last fragment. Eve once told me that some crimes deserved a different kind of justice. I used to think it was another of her crass justifications for loving a man like Dante Santiago, but the tightrope between morality and sin was shortened the second they stole me. It narrowed to zero the first time they took turns to—

  No, no, no. I need my moon, not my memory.

  The seatbelt sign pings off and I lose myself to the shuffle and scramble, choosing to leave the events of last night behind on the polyester seat covers. As such, I disembark to a dawning sense of freedom. Whenever I lost control in Miami, Joseph Grayson was the constant that slowed the motion. Now he’s a thousand miles away, out of reach, redundant, and my blood is pumping with a brand-new cocktail of recklessness.

  My first hurdle is to navigate the airport terminal. These places are like mini citadels, all flowing with their own rivers of foreignness. I move with the herd toward the drab, gray cubicles of border control, and then I’m swept along on a tide of exhaustion and Spanish, out through the baggage displays where I’m deposited on the sanitized white beach of a busy arrivals hall.

  My second hurdle is to find a taxicab sign. I glance around, ignoring all the shitty thoughts flitting through my brain:

  I have no plan.

  I have no destination.

  The flight was short, but the climb seems endless.

  Friends and family are swarming like honeybees around everyone, except me. Their excited chatter makes my losses more acute. Their laughter makes my pale skin and golden hair even more obvious. It’s not like I needed another flashing arrow above my head or anything… My tight black jeans and sweater already scream ‘lost tourist’ amid a sea of pastel shorts and T-shirts.

  Where’s the damn sign, and why is it so damn hot in here?

  Beads of sweat form between my shoulder blades as I stand there, adjusting the shoulder strap of my bag. This is the start of a journey I never expected to take. I didn’t plan for this level of humidity either. “Damn you, Joseph,” I mutter, cursing him for forcing me to run the way I did. I barely packed any summer clothes, but what I’ve got will have to do.

  Giving up on the taxicab sign thing, I head for the nearest restroom. It’s surprisingly clean and empty. Six stalls in a line, no lines, only one occupied. I stand aside to let an old lady exit, and then I’m heading for the nearest stall. Throwing my bag down, I pull out a dark blue denim skirt and a white tee and set to work, kicking off my Chucks and shimmying out of my sticky jeans to savor a brand-new kind of freedom. I go to yank off my sweater when there’s loud cursing from the stall next door.

  “Fuck! Hijueputa! Fuck!”

  It stops for a beat, and then resumes, this time accompanied by a series of loud bangs. I freeze, my arms still locked in the sleeves of my white tee as the partition wall shudders in protest.

  “Hey, parcera,” comes a soft growl suddenly. “Yeah, you next door. The one pretending to ignore the party going on in here… I got a question for you.”

  Her English is perfect, but it’s not enough to keep me interested. I finish dressing and stuff my jeans and sweater into my bag.

  “You American?”

  Again, I ignore her as I slip on my Chucks and crouch down to tie the laces.

  “… Or maybe you’re a mute?” My lack of response is spiking her words with
irritation. “So? Which is it?”

  “American,” I mutter, reaching for the lock, hoping it might shut her up.

  “Are you a good girl? Do you bake cookies on Sundays? Does your boyfriend get a blowie for his birthday?”

  “Excuse me?” This girl is nuts.

  “Let me rephrase that… If you found fifty dollars on a sidewalk, would you keep it?”

  That’s it. I’m out of here.

  “Would you buy yourself some new candy-pink Chucks, or detour to the nearest cop station?”

  My hand freezes on the lock. “How do you know I’m wearing Chucks?”

  “I looked under the partition. Ever cheated?”

  Only on myself. “No! Why are you asking me this?”

  “Lied?”

  I think of Joseph. I think of how I said I could never love a man like him, and my silence answers for me.

  “So you’re a little of both, huh? That’s good, ’cos I’m in deep shit, and I could really use your help. But hey, if you’re gonna run straight to the cops—”

  “No cops,” I say quickly. Men like Joseph steal information from their databases like a bad kid steals candy. He’d be on the next flight out to Colombia.

  She must have read something in my answer that ticked her boxes. The next thing I know, two piercing black eyes are peering over the partition wall at me.

  “Nice skirt,” she comments, raking her gaze over my outfit.

  “Nice invasion of privacy,” I say, frowning up at her. “Ever heard of personal space?”

  “Nope,” she says, sounding amused.

  Just then, the door to the restroom opens and she drops back down into her stall. I listen to the newcomer pee her heart out, followed by the flush and the sounds of a running faucet. When the restroom door opens and closes again, the girl’s face reappears.

  “Okay, Miss America, I have a deal for you.”

  “No deal. No thanks.” I swing my bag onto my shoulder and unlock the stall door. “I’m not in the habit of looking for trouble.” Not anymore.

  “No, you’re looking to disappear. Am I right?”

  “Wrong. I’m on vacation.” The lie comes easily, even though my heart rate is spiking.

  “Wanna bet?”

  There’s a sharp click as she follows me out and blocks my path to the basin. She’s tall and lithe, a wild-eyed sexy-as-hell Colombian panther, and she’s filling out her tight, white mini-dress in all the right places. Her pretty face is dominated by slanting cheekbones, red lips, and framed with a ton of silky, poker-straight, angelic dark hair… Still, I was right about one thing:

  She’s trouble.

  She looks it, she smells of it—her spicy perfume coercing my senses down a road less traveled. There’s an invisible halo hanging above her head that’s stained and tarnished. The red rose tattoo on her left shoulder is all twisted up in thorns, and her leather cowboy boots are giving off a boho vixen devil-may-care vibe.

  Her eyes contradict her, though.

  They’re so dark they’re almost black, with a sharpness and intelligence that cuts through the crap. They’re like a storybook for her true personality, and she reminds me so much of Eve that my heart screams in agony.

  I go to step around her, but she mimics my actions.

  “You want to disappear,” she states again, blinking slowly. “I can help you.”

  “I’m on vacation.” I glare my second lie at her, but she deflects it easily.

  “Oh yeah?” She goes to touch my hand and I flinch away, my bag smacking into the sidewall. “You know you have purple bruises all the way down your arm.” She gestures at them with a frown. “Fingermarks stain real harsh when they’re gift-wrapped by a sadistic asshole.”

  I back away from her like she’s made of anthrax. “Screw hygiene. I’ll find another restroom.”

  “I’m offering you a lot for something that’s gonna cost your ass all of five seconds, parcera,” she singsongs after me. “You do this, and I’ll put an invisibility cloak around you so tight, no abusive malparidos will ever find you again.”

  Her confidence hits me with the same potency as her perfume—knocking me off balance and daring me to believe.

  “Why would you do that? You don't know anything about me.”

  “You got another option tucked away in your black overnighter?” She cocks her eyebrows, interpreting my bravado for what it is: as empty as my soul. “Afterward, I get you safe, and then I disappear. No questions. No comeback. I promise.”

  I could waste hours assessing the pro and cons of this craziness, but it’s a weighted fight. I have nowhere to go, and even less money to do it on.

  “Why do you think I’m running?” I ask her.

  She shrugs. “You’ve got the hunted look. I’ve worn it myself a few times, but I’m happy to say it doesn't suit either of us… We share the same taste in men,” she admits with a sigh, her dark eyes grilling a backstory into mine.

  There’s a pause. “Is it illegal?”

  “To smack women about? Yeah,” she scoffs, “but it never seems to stop them.”

  “No, my part in this deal.”

  “Ah.” She folds her arms and leans her ass against the basin. “You want me to lie?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s skimming a fine line.” She flashes me that wicked grin again. “But only for five seconds. That’s what we agreed, right?”

  “Right,” I confirm, dropping my bag to the floor. “What do you need?”

  “Your help,” she says simply.

  That’s when I know she needs this favor as much as I need hers.

  “How dexterous are you?” she asks.

  “Dexterous?” I scrunch up my face in confusion.

  “I need to settle a dare, but my stupid dress is getting in the way.”

  My eyes drop to her bombshell figure in surprise. Okay, so there’s not much to the white mini, but it’s looking pretty damn flawless from where I’m standing.

  She motions for me to follow her into her stall. “Don’t get the wrong idea or anything. I’m not into chicks.” She points at the security camera above the door. “I’d just prefer it if we didn't invite airport security into my problem.”

  “Are you from Colombia?” I watch her spin on the heels of her cowboy boots.

  “You ask a lot of questions for a girl who hasn’t completed her part of her deal yet.”

  “You’re pretty evasive for someone who hasn't shaken on the deal yet.”

  She lets out a husky bark of laughter and swishes her hair to the side to reveal the back of her dress. “Born and raised, but I attended college in California… The zipper’s stuck. There’s a thread or something caught in the line, and I can’t jerk it free.”

  It takes me a second to grasp what she’s saying. “That’s the deal? You need me to unzip your dress for you?”

  “Five seconds, parcera,” she says, laughing again. “I told you it was easy money.”

  “Can’t you just pull it over your head?”

  “Does this dress look like the kind you can just pull over your head?” she mocks, rolling her eyes at me over her shoulder. “It’s so damn tight, I can’t breathe.”

  “Okay, fine.” I grasp the hem of flimsy material between my fingertips. From here I can see the white thread knotted tight around the metal teeth, but I can’t work it free. “Permission to yank?”

  “Permission granted. It’s my favorite, but I’m cool with the sacrifice.”

  Her skin is smooth and warm, her slender neck falling forward in a delicate arc for me. I pause for a second to appreciate her beauty. Missing my own beauty. Can the used and discarded ever be beautiful again?

  “What did he do to you?” she murmurs.

  He kept drowning me in his guilt. He held my face in a pool of blood, and he wouldn’t let up until I was choking on it.

  “I don’t understand.” I take the zipper firmly and tug as hard as I can, her dress peeling into two perfect pieces like split fruit. “There...�
�� I stop short when I see what’s taped to the underside of the seams. Six small square bags all filled with white powder.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  In a daze, I watch her slip the dress sleeves down her arms, revealing more of that rose tattoo— red and bloody, slashed high across her shoulder blade, like another unexpected surprise. How many years for possession in South America? I’m guessing it’s not single figures.

  Keeping her back turned, she tugs at the bunched material around her hips to get to the coke. Next, she removes each bag slowly and stuffs them, one by one, into her purse. Another person enters the restroom, and then leaves. The quiet in this stall is far louder than any flushed toilet or running faucet.

  “It’s not what you think,” she says, sniffing at my silent disapproval.

  I feel an explanation coming on, but I don't care enough to listen. “Save it. I’m not interested.” I burst from the stall, hoping a fast exit will make the whole situation go away. “Don't bother returning the favor. I’m good.”

  “Wait!” she says, bolting after me with her dress still flapping about, one hand clamped to her chest to keep her modesty. She reaches for my arm again and I swerve out of reach, my skin prickling from the near miss.

  “Leave me the fuck alone!”

  “Please, parcera. Let me ask you one more question before you go. Have you ever played truth or dare?”

  Yes.

  A bomb of a memory detonates in my mind. The floor caves in and I’m sliding into hell, reaching out for footholds that don’t exist. They made me play a game in the dark six months ago. They laughed as they held me down—

  I slap my hand against the tiles.

  Their truth was debasement. My dare was survival.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Her voice drifts down into the chasm.

  I slap a palm across my mouth as hot bile surges up from the pit of my stomach. I reach the basin just in time to vomit up the images, watching my untold horror mix and weaken with the running water.