“Max!” I screamed as adrenaline pumped through my system. I couldn’t even think. All I could do was feel as a flurry of emotion slammed into my body all at once.
It was almost paralyzing.
I couldn’t think.
I had to think.
The gunman socked Max in the face and the sound of the pounding of flesh turned my stomach. I glanced around to see the other man lying unconscious on the ground, my purse beside him.
I ran to my bag and dumped the contents out on the concrete. Finding the only thing I thought might help, I ran back over toward the men, who were know grappling over the gun.
I ran over, holding up my weapon, ready to strike, when Max flipped the larger man off him and delivered a jab to his kidney. The man made a wheezing sound and Max grabbed the gun, twisting it around to take it away.
Our attacker was a persistent man, grabbing onto Max’s wrist and pulling the gun back. Max leaned over as the two fought for control of the weapon.
The sound of a firing bullet cut through the night.
I screamed and closed the distance between us as both men collapsed, tangled in a heap, no longer wrestling.
The dark, unmistakable stain of blood creeped out from beneath them, winding across the pavement and pooling at my feet.
17
Tucker
I was a Marine (Yeah, I was out of the Corps now, but once a Marine, always a Marine). I had been trained in war. I had been trained to fight.
Didn’t mean I enjoyed it.
But as I rolled off the asshole who shot himself while trying to shoot me and threatening to shoot Charlotte, I enjoyed seeing him bleed.
Fucker.
In fact, as I stood, I considered shooting him again.
“Max!” Charlotte screeched and plowed into me from behind. I spun, taking her weight and supporting it while planting my feet into the ground to keep us from falling over.
She pulled back, frantically searching my body, running her cool fingers all along my limbs and up my chest.
I’ll be damned if my cock didn’t start to respond.
Apparently he didn’t care we were almost just killed.
“Where are you shot?” she asked, her words spilling over each other.
“Charlie,” I said.
“Where’s my phone?” she yelled. “I’ll call 9-1-1!”
“Charlie—”
“Oh my God, you’re bleeding. You’re bleeding!” She gasped, placing her hands over the front of my white shirt, which was now saturated in red.
I caught her hands and squeezed. “I’m not bleeding.”
“What?” she said, like my words weren’t getting through to her.
I released her hands and grabbed her by the face, cupping her jaw in my palms and staring directly into her wild eyes. “Honey, listen. I’m not shot. That’s not my blood. I’m fine.”
“You’re not shot?” she said, her voice wobbling.
“No.” My hand skimmed down her neck to brush away some of the hair that was sticking to her tear-stained cheek.
A sob ripped from her throat as her arms thrust around me. Charlotte buried her face in my chest and cried. “I thought you were dead!” she wailed. “Dead!”
“I’m not dead.”
“The blood…”
“It wasn’t mine.”
“They tried to rob us.” She stiffened and pulled away. “They tried to rob us!”
Was it odd I thought it was cute the way she seemed to just remember we were in a deadly situation?
The man who shot himself (what a douche) groaned and pushed himself up to his knees. I turned, tucking Charlotte between me and the wall, my muscles tensing.
I reached down beside him and picked up the gun, cocking it and aiming it at his head. “You have shitty aim,” I told him. “I don’t.”
“This was supposed to be easy.” He moaned, pressing a hand to the bullet wound in his side.
I reached behind me and guided Charlotte’s fingers into my belt loop. “Stay with me, sweetheart.”
I moved along the wall, keeping the gun ready to fire as we made our way over to the guy who was laughingly easy to knock out. I kicked him. “Get up.”
He didn’t reply.
I kicked him again.
He jolted awake like someone threw cold water on him.
“Get your bleeding friend and get the hell out of my face.”
His eyes widened when he saw who was in control now, and he leapt off the pavement, rushing over to his asshole friend. They started to move away.
“We have to call 9-1-1!” Charlotte whispered fiercely behind me.
I ignored her.
“Hey,” I called out to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.
They looked up.
“You tell who sent you that if he wants me dead, he’s going to have to try a hell of a lot harder than this.”
The idiots grimaced.
For shits and giggles, I fired off a shot that ricocheted off the pavement just in front of their feet. They scattered like the cockroaches they were.
“They’re getting away!” Charlotte yelled, rushing out from behind me and running after the men.
I grabbed her and hauled back into my side. “Let them go.”
“Are you crazy?”
My eyes narrowed on her face. “You’re bruised.” Gently, I ran my thumb on the underside of her chin where a purple mark was already forming.
“So are you.”
I took a hit to the face, a hit I wouldn’t have taken at all if my damn reflexes hadn’t been slowed down by the beer. No more drinking until this was over. “I’ve had worse.”
She made a face. “You have?”
We bent to pick up her bag and scattered belongings. I made sure to look over everything, hoping to see a flash drive. There wasn’t one.
I avoided her question. “You gonna be okay?”
“We need to call the police.”
I took the phone out of her grip and stood, slipping it into my pocket.
“Give me my phone.”
I stuck out my hip. “If you want it, go get it.”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead.
I chuckled.
“How can you laugh at a time like this?” she demanded.
I sighed wearily. Because if I didn’t laugh, I might lose it.
“No cops. Let’s go.”
Of course a cab chose that minute to show up. The last one abandoned us the minute he saw trouble brewing. If he saw the blood on my shirt when we approached the car, he didn’t say.
We rode the short ride to the apartment in silence and then trudged into the building. I tucked the gun in the waistband of my pants and the weight of it was familiar and calming.
As I waited for the elevator, she retrieved her briefcase from behind the plant. Figured she would remember it was there. Upstairs, I unlocked the door and stepped in first, sure to keep my body angled to block Charlotte. I was half expecting someone to be lying in wait in the apartment, ready to finish what the idiots on the street couldn’t.
It appeared to be empty.
But I wasn’t about to let my guard down that easily.
I glanced at Charlotte over my shoulder and held a finger to my lips. Her face paled a bit, but she nodded and straightened her shoulders.
We made our way past the kitchen and stopped in front of the bathroom door. Pulling the gun out of my waistband, I pushed the door open and raised the gun.
The room was empty.
Keeping the gun out in front of me, I stepped into the bedroom. After checking the closets, I knew no one was here.
We were safe.
For now.
Charlotte collapsed on the end of the bed, tossing her heels on the floor and stretching out her bare toes. She looked exhausted and frightened.
“How are you handling all the alcohol you drank earlier?” I asked, wanting to make sure she wasn’t going to spend the night praying to the porcelain gods.
She m
ade a scoffing sound. “Whatever buzz I had going on was completely wiped out when someone put a gun to my head.”
“What a waste of good alcohol.” I sighed, shaking my head.
She smiled, but it faded away when her eyes zeroed in on the blood staining my shirt.
“I’m going to clean up a little,” I said, leaving her and shutting myself in the bathroom.
I went to sink and glanced in the mirror. The flesh around my right eye was discolored and tender. I’d probably have a black eye come morning.
I stripped off the ruined shirt and tossed it in the garbage can. Afterward, I washed my hands and face at the sink and grabbed a towel to dry with.
After what happened today at the office and just now out on the street, things were going to go straight to hell fast.
I hated that Charlotte was mixed up in this. I didn’t want to be responsible for her, for her safety. I didn’t want her death on my conscience. It was heavy enough as it was.
The sound of the door being opened behind had me pulling the towel away from my face.
“Max, we really need to talk about what happened—” Charlotte was saying. And then her words halted.
She gasped.
I wasn’t wearing a shirt.
I spun around, facing her, but by the look on her face, I knew that she had seen.
She started to speak and stopped. Her brow wrinkled and I watched as she struggled internally, wondering if she was seeing things.
I guess I should have locked the door.
Or maybe I hadn’t because deep down I was hoping she would see.
“When did you get a tattoo?” she asked, her voice low and slightly off.
This was my moment to choose. I could make up some outrageous story and convince her it was true.
Or I could tell the truth about who I really was.
I like this guy better. I heard her words in the back of my mind.
The FBI told me not to tell her.
I didn’t like to be told what to do.
I laid the towel beside the sink. “I got it several years ago.”
“You got it years ago,” she repeated, trying to make sense of what I said.
I nodded.
Her eyes swept over my bare chest, my arms, and then finally up to my face. Her lips parted, and I heard her indrawn breath.
“Charlotte, we need to talk.”
She remained silent for long moments, then slowly she began to shake her head.
This was going to be harder than I thought. As I searched for the words, for the explanation I owed her, she turned and fled.
18
Charlotte
I knew.
All the odd little things he said, the leather jacket, the short hair. The guitar.
I knew.
How had I not figured it out before? How had I been so incredibly easy to trick?
My stomach clenched as I raced through the apartment, rushing into the bedroom, heading toward the nightstand beside the bed.
I heard him following, but I didn’t turn to look. I couldn’t look at him. Not yet.
I had to make sure what I knew was real and I wasn’t losing my ever-loving mind. I dropped to my knees, ignoring a sting of pain, in front of the nightstand and yanked open the bottom drawer. I reached far into the back and pulled out a white envelope and dumped the contents out onto the floor.
I shuffled through the images, flinging them every which way until the one I was seeking caught my eye. I sat back on my haunches and stared down at it, like it was cursed and if I touched it, I might turn to stone.
Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?
Because it’s insane. Because this is the stuff that only happens in movies.
I could feel him standing behind me, silent, waiting…
My fingers closed around the cool finish of the four-by-six paper and I pushed off the floor and turned.
I looked down at it again, waves of hair falling over my shoulders and concealing my face from sight. Two little boys, about the age of seven, sat arm in arm on a brick wall. Both were grinning happily and clutching red, white, and blue popsicles in their hands.
They looked exactly the same.
Both had dark, thick hair that curled around their faces. Their eyes were dark and fringed with impossibly dark lashes. Their skin was tanned from the sun, their lips bright red from the popsicle, and they were both dressed in blue-jean shorts with red-and-white striped T-shirts.
They were brothers.
They were twins.
I flipped the photo over and looked at the writing on the back.
Tucker and Max, brothers forever.
I lifted my eyes to stare at the man who had been living in my home. Who I woke up wrapped around. He looked utterly different to me now.
The eye sees what it expects to see. How many times had I cautioned a jury about this? How many times did I tell them to look past what they thought was obvious, to look past what they expected to see?
His face seemed sharper, more chiseled, and it wasn’t because his hair was shorter. His eyes held some kind of hardness that a person only got from experience. His shoulders were broader, his chest slightly more muscular. And his abs… his abs were more defined.
Along with the tattoo that I knew decorated his back, he had a band around his left bicep. A black, solid stripe wrapped around the muscle and in the center were the words Semper Fi.
“Tucker,” I said, holding the image between us. Max didn’t talk about his twin very often, but he told me about him when we first starting dating. He said they looked exactly the same but couldn’t be more different. I always thought I might meet Tucker someday…
But never like this.
He glanced at it but made no move to take it from my hand. When he looked, I saw stark pain flash across his features and his chest expanded with indrawn breath.
“Where is Max?” I said, this horrible feeling making me feel heavy. “What the hell did you do with Max?”
Tucker lifted his eyes from the photo and looked at me.
I knew whatever he was going to say was not going to be good.
The photo fluttered to the ground, drifting over beside the bed, when I launched myself at him. I hit his warm, solid chest head on, barreling into him with all my weight.
He didn’t even move.
“Where is he!” I demanded, hitting his chest with the sides of my fists.
“Let’s go sit down,” he said, trying to lead me toward the living room.
“I’m not doing anything until you tell me about Max!” I yelled, yanking away from him and planting my feet into the floor.
Tucker spun around, pinning me with a hard and angry stare. “Max is dead.”
Shock hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water.
Silence descended upon the room like it had been plunged into darkness. It was a thick and charged silence, the kind that made it hard to breathe.
“You’re lying.” I accused.
“I wish to God I was.”
The pain behind his words wasn’t something that could be pretended. The naked grief he didn’t bother to conceal in his chocolate eyes couldn’t be denied.
“No,” I said, my voice a mere whimper.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice gravelly and low.
Tears swam into my eyes, blocking my vision, and grief bubbled up inside me. Max was dead. My best friend in the world was gone and I hadn’t even known it. I went about my life like everything was fine. I worked. I ate. I slept. I didn’t question the gut feeling I had that something was different. I didn’t realize something could be wrong.
Dear God, I kissed his brother.
I liked it.
The floodgates opened and tears rained down my cheeks. A sob ripped out of my throat and I placed my palm over my mouth to try and contain the sobs.
Grief like this couldn’t be contained.
The pain and loss of losing someone you loved was too powerful to hold inside.
; My shoulders slumped and shook as I cried and tears dripped onto my blouse. How easily your entire world can shift in just moments.
I felt his heat first, like a warm blanket that just came out of the dryer. His warmth radiated between us, and I swayed. Tucker wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his bare chest, pressing a hand against the back of my head and holding me tightly.
I cried harder because I liked it.
I cried harder because his touch felt so good.
I was an awful person.
My boyfriend died and his brother came into this house, pretending to be him, and I didn’t even know it.
What’s more is I told him just earlier that I liked the “new” him better.
My back spasmed with every sob, sobs that now came out silent. It was as if my body didn’t have the energy to make sound.
“Shhh,” Tucker crooned, rocking us back and forth as we stood in the center of the bedroom with photos and papers scattered at our feet.
My tears leaked all over his skin, dampening his chest acting as a tissue for my grief. He didn’t complain. In fact, it seemed like he held me tighter. It was the kind of hold that anchored a person, the kind of hold that made me feel like even though I was falling apart, all of my pieces were going to stay where they belonged.
I sobbed for a long time, until my eyes ran out of water and my throat hurt. Even after I began to quiet, he still held me. We still rocked back and forth in a comforting rhythm until little by little my brain began to work again.
Little by little reality came back, pushing into my fuzzy head and past my swollen eyes. My body felt drained and exhausted. But even my poor physical condition couldn’t stop my brain from wanting to know everything.
I had to know.
I pulled away and looked up. “I want to know everything.”
Tucker searched my eyes for long moments and then gave a short nod. “Come on.”
I followed him out into the living room and tucked myself into the corner of the sofa. When I bent my knees to tuck my legs under me, they burned with pain. I looked down and realized for the first time since coming home that both my knees were raw and bloody.
It must have happened outside when we were being mugged.
The blood had dried, but my movements cause the cuts to split back open and were both oozing bright-red blood.
Tricks Page 11
