by Quinn, Cari
Somehow that was even worse.
Assuming that the blond for sale was even Richelle. He wouldn’t know that until he got in the damn apartment.
“Look, I’ll be straight with you. I didn’t bring all the cash with me. This place looked sketchy and no way was I walking in here with a ton of money on me and no guarantee you’ve got the girl.”
“Oh, I’ve got her.” Vinnie gripped the door and licked his lips. “We’ve both got her, right, Don?”
Mal gave Vinnie a grim smile and wished he didn’t have to play this the right way. This guy deserved a bullet between the eyes for even half of what he was insinuating. “Let me see her first, then I’ll give you a deposit and go to the ATM down the block. Pretty sure you don’t take personal checks.”
“You’d be right there, son.” Vinnie moved farther into the doorway and braced his arms on the frame. “Didja miss the part where I told you no holds? Only reason I’m doing this is because Crowley said you were in a fix and good for the cash. She’s untested, you feel me? Untrained. I know that goes for more, and I’m cutting you a deal because me and Crowley go way back.”
Mal shoved all of it into the back of his head. He couldn’t really think about the words, couldn’t absorb them, or he’d be pounding this guy and his fucking creep brother into the ground before either of them had a chance to draw a breath. And that wouldn’t be good, even if it would be immensely satisfying.
This was supposed to be easy. Clean. In and out. These types of fucks never operated alone. If he got into it with them, guaranteed there would be more assholes where they came from, and they’d probably be eager to gun for him—and possibly Richelle too. He had too much on the line with Lila to let this get out of hand.
The goal was to get Richelle out the door, nice and simple. Then he’d figure out what the hell to do with her. But she’d be safe, and this would be over.
If she was smart enough not to go back to the same bastards who’d nearly sold her. Sold her, for fuck’s sake.
Every time he thought he’d seen the worst humanity had to offer, he hadn’t.
“I’m good for it,” Mal said, voice low. “I’ll leave you what I have and be back in under fifteen.” Less if he could help it, because he needed to get this done and Richelle and him gone before the real Sampson showed up. “First I need to see with my own eyes that she’s in good condition.”
The words stung his throat, but all he was thinking about now was getting in, getting the girl, and getting the fuck out.
Vinnie glared at him for long enough that Mal braced, already judging height and weight. He could take out the wiry dude with no trouble. He just had no idea what was waiting behind him.
“Don, we’re gonna let him see her, all right? Just a second. He wants some proof that she’s ready to go.”
An unintelligible grunt came from inside. Vinnie stepped back, swinging the door wide as he made a c’mere gesture with his fingers.
Mal stepped into their apartment and barely resisted doing a double take. He’d expected the place to be just this side of habitable, and instead everything was black and chrome and modern. The shades were pulled and tall thin candles were burning in a row in front of the TV where a movie Mal knew all too well was playing, set on mute.
The Godfather. Figured.
The guy stretched out on the long black leather couch never sat up. He just lifted his fingers as if he was cocking a gun and pointed to a hallway off the living room. “End of the hall.”
Vinnie jerked his chin at Mal. “Go on. But be quick about it. You don’t get gone and get me that money and I’ll lower the price for the next guy who comes in here.”
Mal nodded and was about to move past Vinnie when the other man held out a hand studded with gold rings. “About time for that down payment, don’t you think?”
Mal fought not to smack the dude’s hand away. Instead he pried out his wallet and withdrew the sheaf of bills. He’d been running low before this, and he’d refused his ex-stepmommy’s offer to fund his excursion tonight. He was Martin Shawcross’s firstborn son, so of course he had money to burn. If he could spend it on racing and other unworthy pursuits, surely he could spare some for the philanthropic cause of rescuing a woman on the verge of being sold.
Holy fuck, how was this his life?
Mal slapped the money in Vinnie’s hand and lifted his brows. If he didn’t brazen his way through this, the gig would be up. “Remind me again how much we’re talking?”
Vinnie was too occupied counting his current pile of green to answer at first. The figure he named would’ve made Mal rock back on his feet if he hadn’t already been reeling from this whole damn situation.
So he nodded and sidestepped the guy to head down the narrow hall.
“Five minutes,” Vinnie said distractedly, still flipping through bills. “Long enough to check her over and no more. No funny stuff.”
Check her over? Christ.
Mal nodded, but Vinnie wasn’t looking at him. He also didn’t follow him down the hall. He might have, if a knock hadn’t sounded at the door.
“Bitch, you better have my money,” a man shouted.
Mal rubbed the heel of his hand over his stampeding heart. Not Sampson then. Fuck, that’d been close. Was still close if he didn’t get his ass—and Richelle’s—out of there.
The question was how.
As quietly as possible, he opened doors on the way down the hall. The bathroom had telltale steps outside, and Mal swallowed hard, leaving the door cracked as he turned to check out the other rooms. He needed to know the lay of the land if they were to have any chance to make it out of there.
The fire escape might be his only option. Possibly just for her, if he could shove her out and down the stairs before the assholes caught on.
Once he reached the last door, Mal gripped the knob. The yelling in the living room was escalating, and now came the unmistakable crack of a fist hitting an object. From the sounds of things, flesh would be next.
He wanted them both out of there before that happened.
Turning the knob, he pushed open the door and squinted into the near darkness. A lava lamp in the corner offered the only light, and tinny music came out of unseen speakers. It was so low it had to be headphones maybe, or a phone. No, headphones definitely. Crashing drums, screaming guitars. The air reeked of pot and sickeningly sweet incense. Some fruity scent—plums maybe—and the smells of smoke and weed swam in his head.
He pushed inside, his eyes finally adjusting to the low light. Disappointment surged through him. She wasn’t here.
Then he shifted his head and nearly staggered as a pale figure shifted in front of the window. Her long blond hair spun out as the woman danced. Moonlight caressed her almost translucent skin. She had long legs, capped by tiny shorts. A thin tank clung to her curves and magnified them as she moved just right, throwing back her head. She was lost to the music playing in her headphones, dancing in a way that leaned more on intrinsic rhythm than skill. Her arms rose above her head and her hips circled in figure-eights. And her breasts bounced, causing him to stiffen no matter how he hated himself for it.
There was no time for looking and even less for touching.
He moved toward her, his footsteps hushed by the plush carpeting. Just as he reached out to touch her, her eyes blazed open and he steeled himself for her to scream.
But she just smiled at him, her big eyes hazy and unfocused. She kept dancing, her tongue tracing her lips.
Though the gesture felt ridiculous, Mal lifted a finger to his mouth in the universal sign for silence. She nodded and kept moving, tilting her head so all that glorious blond hair spilled in every direction. She held out a hand to him, and he stared, on the verge of clasping it.
“Mal, be careful. She’s…fragile. Women like her tend to bring out the desire to protect.”
He shook off the stupor that had infected him since he’d walked into this room. This wasn’t happening now. Not with her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Her smile fled. Her expression turned quizzical and she angled her head, waiting for an explanation he didn’t have words to give.
Pointing at the wall, he lifted his brows. “Are you okay?” he repeated, keeping his voice as low as possible. “They didn’t touch you?”
She ducked her head, and he decided that was probably a dumb question. Lila had said Vinnie was Richelle’s boyfriend at one time.
He cocked a finger under her chin and lifted it. “Did he hurt you? Did he allow anyone else to hurt you?”
Confusion blossomed across her face. It wasn’t conventionally beautiful. Her features were somehow at odds with each other. Her nose was upturned and dotted with freckles he could see even in this light. Her mouth was too wide, her brows too dark in contrast with her white-blond hair. Her scant curves and angular body and pale skin definitely weren’t the standard California chic.
But she was arresting in a way he couldn’t forget.
“No.” Her voice was a rasp. “Just…no. No one hurt me.” That little half smile reappeared. “Except me.”
“Come on then.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her forward, stopping at the soft giggle that tumbled from her. It wasn’t brittle and broken, a hysterical sound caused by the traumas she’d suffered. Nor was it hysterical and unknowing, more from whatever she’d taken than from her.
No, this sound was pure joy.
“Where are we—”
He shook his head and slammed his finger against his lips again. Her hand curled into his in a gesture of trust as she nodded. A smile still danced in her eyes. It was too dark to see their color or their expression, but he knew they’d be blue and mischievous behind the veil of whatever she’d shot into her system.
Even beyond the pull still humming in his blood, he hated her for doing that to herself. For bringing them both to that point. At least she’d made the choice.
Hell, she’d fucking chosen for them both. She was the reason he was in that apartment, wasn’t she?
He dragged her to the door and pressed his ear to it, listening to the raised voices down the hall. There were no more sounds of fists plowing into walls, but the volume of their discussion hadn’t lowered. If anything, the men were even louder since there were now three voices involved.
Behind Mal, the tinny music in Richelle’s headphones taunted him. That was normal life. Music, freedom, going fast. Pushing the limits—for himself, always. Because he couldn’t fucking trust anyone else.
She leaned her forehead against his back, and fuck, she was singing softly to whatever was blaring into her head. So soft it was almost a whisper. Her fingers were twined with his like warm silk over steel. That grip was so much stronger than her ethereal appearance.
Delicate outside, solid core. She won’t be broken by this. But you’re already broke, aren’t you?
He pulled open the door—carefully, so fucking carefully—and shifted to push her into the hall, caging her within the circle of his arms as if he could shield her from any possible threat. She giggled and gripped his biceps, looking up at him, eyes so vast and deep it was as if he was falling. Too far, too fast.
Deliberately, he turned his face away. It was too dark for her to make out much. Not that it mattered. He never intended to see this woman again.
He nudged her forward, more roughly than was necessary. He didn’t want to hurt her, but she was too close. Too soft and needy, and shit, he didn’t mess around with any of that anymore.
“Be careful, Mal.”
He’d learned his lesson there. Never again.
Something crashed in the living room. Fuck, it was time to go.
Mal used his boot to push the bathroom door open wider. He drew her inside and into the tub, hauling up the cracked window in one smooth move. It groaned but not enough to make him pause. He followed up with the screen before taking a quick look at the fire escape. It appeared rickety, but it should get the job done.
He flipped the brim of his hat around to the back, then pulled her in front of him and lowered his face to her plums-and-smoke-scented hair. Now the incense didn’t smell sickeningly sweet. On her, it was like fucking candy.
Everything was.
Or maybe that was her shampoo or lotion he was smelling. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he’d never erase the scent from his mind.
Without searching for the source of the music, he hauled the headphones off her head. “Can you fly, little Ricki?” he murmured against her ear.
If she’d giggled again, he might have happily wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed. Not because she was happy, whether that was from the chemicals or just complete naïveté about her situation. But because she could be.
He would’ve taken any fucking pill or powder that gave him that option, no matter the consequences. But those highs were brief. Fake. And he’d had enough plastic to last a lifetime.
She turned her head and pinned him with desolate eyes, her laughter gone. It had vanished from her face as if it had never been there at all. “I keep trying.”
On her hip, his hand clenched. Leaving bruises on fragile flesh. Purposely, so if she didn’t have any other reminders of this moment, she’d have that for as long as the marks lasted.
He’d mattered.
He pressed his mouth to the top of her head and sucked in a greedy breath. “You’re going down those stairs and you’re going to run. Understand me?”
She nodded.
“Don’t look back, don’t wait for me. Don’t stop for anyone. Get help and don’t ever fucking come back here, no matter what.” This time her nod wasn’t enough. He shifted to grip her chin, drawing her up on her tiptoes until her eyes met his. “Promise me, Ricki.”
He didn’t know why he was calling her Ricki. Lila had slipped and called her it once yesterday, but until two minutes ago, labeling her as Richelle in his head had been plenty. But now the name tripped off his tongue.
She didn’t reply right away, just stared up at him. “I promise,” she whispered, her chin trembling. “I won’t come back here.”
Satisfied, he shoved the headphones into her hands and gave her a boost out the window. Once her feet landed on the iron platform, his heart started beating again.
She was going to be okay.
But she didn’t run. Unsteadily, she crouched down and grabbed a hank of the hair poking out beneath his cap. Too damn long. “What’s your name?” she mouthed, as silent as the moon bathing her in an unearthly glow.
“Your worst nightmare. Now go.”
The corner of her lips lifted as she tugged on his hair. “Beautiful nightmare,” she breathed, leaning forward. He figured she was balancing herself on the sill, so he wasn’t prepared for her to dip down precariously to crash her mouth onto his.
The kiss lasted ten seconds. Less. Her lips were rough, not soft. But the sweetness lingered even as she drew back and lifted her shaking hand to her mouth. To seal in his taste or to wipe it away, he didn’t know.
Then she was gone.
Read the rest of Mal and Ricki’s story in Raw Rhythm, now available.
Simon and Margo: Reconnected
A Lost in Oblivion Extra
The details of this bonus story come AFTER Raw Rhythm, Found in Oblivion #5. So, if you are not fully caught up with the Found in Oblivion series we are warning you now. SPOILERS!
“You’re going.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Simon Kagan pointed to the car. “We’re getting out of here for a few hours. You can do this, Violin Girl. I promise.”
“They need me.”
“They always need you. I’m not disputing that. You need a break and I need a few hours with my wife.”
That did it. He wasn’t proud of using that as a way to get his gorgeous wife away from the support system that the women had become for Harper McCoy. They were so afraid she was going to break.
Harper was one of the strongest women he knew. She had to
be to deal with his bandmate, Deacon McCoy, and their kid who had more energy than five children combined. And that was saying something since everyone in his damn band was procreating at the speed of bunnies.
But since the accident, everyone was treating Harper with kid gloves and someone was staying with her around the clock. Because they didn’t have kids, Margo was constantly on call to help out. She was bouncing between her sister’s place and Harper’s so much that he barely got to see her.
And he didn’t begrudge her absence…much.
Well, except for the surplus of downtime he had and the nightmares he’d had to stuff down since the accident.
But it was two weeks before Christmas. Once the holidays arrived, he’d never get alone time with her. Between the band’s responsibilities for the new album, promo, and the newest disaster to touch their lives, he knew the rest of the year was going to be a blur of activity.
Simon didn’t think he was being too selfish.
Not right now.
Not when she was looking more tired and drawn than he’d ever seen.
He stroked his hand down the glossy mass of her perpetual ponytail. “Just a few hours, babe. We both need it.”
“We had sex…” The little wrinkle between her brows made him laugh.
“Yeah, it’s been a few weeks. But that’s not what this is about.” At her skeptical eyebrow lift, he sighed. “Not what it’s only about. You need some time away from all of…that.” At a loss, he slid his arm around her waist and dropped a little lower to the once lush curve of her ass. She hadn’t been eating enough and he wasn’t a fan of the fifteen pounds she’d lost in the last few months.
Margo had been anxious about her curvy figure since they met, but he’d always loved that she wasn’t one of those women who were more bones than curves. He loved that he could grip her hips and not worry about breaking her.
But she was wasting away with the constant hours between her band responsibilities as their violin player, and the emotional weight of her grieving sisters—one of her heart and one by blood. She needed some pampering, dammit.
