His gaze was level with hers, his mouth a flat line. Blake swallowed. Once upon a time, she’d stolen something from Roland, Milton, and Nick, a design for an app, a game based on mazes and knots. She’d stolen it for Keenan, because he’d required her to take it. The boys believed she’d done it to avoid another beating, but the truth was, she’d done it to keep Keenan from hurting them. She knew he was more than capable of hurting—even killing—anyone he thought was standing in his way, including Roland, though they were cousins.
“He hasn’t spoken to me. I promise, Roland.” She also hadn’t received a letter this year. Usually she received them on the anniversary of the day he’d nearly killed her—Valentine’s Day. She’d hoped—stupidly, she saw now—that he’d given up tormenting her.
Roland nodded. “I didn’t think so, but you need to be careful, okay, sweetheart? He may not have been around for ten years, but you know he doesn’t forget.”
Or forgive, Blake finished silently. And that pretty much summed up Keenan. He wasn’t upset because she’d filed charges against him for nearly strangling her to death; he was upset because he’d considered her his property, and Keenan never liked to lose anything that belonged to him.
Blake adjusted the scarf she was wearing around her neck, making sure it was there, covering the scars that were a permanent reminder of that night. She couldn’t have forgotten it even if she’d tried. The incident was the crux on which her life had turned, the moment when she’d defied Keenan Shy and nearly paid with her life. She still had nightmares about it, though not recently, and would wake gasping for air and crying.
It had been a cold winter that year as well, and Nick, Milton, and Roland had created a software game and had just gotten an offer from one of the major game makers to purchase it. Quite an accomplishment, considering they were still in school. They’d been celebrating at the bar where she worked, and Keenan had been there, buying them drinks and patting them on the back for their success.
Once the three young men were thoroughly drunk, Keenan had pulled her to the side and said, very softly, “You’ve seen them working on that game, right?”
At the time, Blake had been surprised by the question. He knew that she hung out at their apartment sometimes. They’d been showing her how to use computers, trying to convince her to go back to school.
“Yes,” she’d replied, confused.
“Good,” he’d said quietly. “There’s a backup drive in your purse.”
“What?” Blake had frowned, confused.
Keenan, his face filled with a look of concern, had put a hand on her side and squeezed cruelly, pressing on the dark bruise that he’d given her earlier in the week.
“Remember what I did to Michael?”
Michael was a kid from the neighborhood. He’d gotten drunk and tried to kiss her. In retaliation, Keenan had framed the kid. He’d been arrested for robbing a convenience store a month ago and still hadn’t made bail.
Licking her lips, she’d said, “Yes.”
His eyes had flickered to where Nick and Milton and Roland were toasting. “I can do much worse.”
He had.
Blake realized she was touching the scarf around her neck and brought herself back to the present with effort, grabbing Roland’s hand.
“Does Nick know he’s in town?” She looked around, half expecting to see Nick all of a sudden, watching out for her as he always did.
Roland contemplated the ice cubes remaining in his drink. “I haven’t told him yet.”
“Do me a favor. Don’t, okay? It’s better if Nick stays away from me.”
Roland laid a hand on her wrist. “You can’t let Keenan mess with your life again, Blake. You have a plan. You have something you want. Don’t let him fuck it up.”
Blake pressed her lips together. “I’m not changing my plan; I’m just not going to involve Nick. It’s what he wants anyway.” Nick had said he wanted to keep his life simple. Getting him to have sex with her was one thing. Getting involved with him while Keenan was around was more than complicated—it was a complete mess. He didn’t deserve it. She’d invest in a good vibrator like other single women.
“Nick’s an idiot.”
“Yes,” she agreed. He was a control-obsessed idiot, but he was her friend, and Keenan had always taken special pleasure in taunting him. If she could keep him off Keenan’s radar, all the better.
“You said you think Keenan had something to do with the hackers that managed to get into Accendo?”
Roland nodded, his hand going to his watch again. “The hackers knew us, not just our code. There just aren’t that many people who have the skill to pull that off and would want to hurt us.”
Blake winced. “Could it have been anyone other than Keenan?”
Roland set his empty scotch glass on the table with a snap. “Maybe, but after searching for months, a few clues I found . . . no, I don’t think so.”
“I’m so sorry, Roland,” Blake said simply.
Shaking his head, Roland leaned back a little in his chair. “You know better than that. You don’t control Keenan. You never did.”
Blake looked away. She hadn’t controlled him, but she’d had control of herself. She’d thought she’d loved him. She’d thought he’d needed her. I’m an idiot. She pressed her lips together.
“I better get back to it. You want another drink?”
“No, I’m going to head back over to the office.”
Blake nodded and stood up. Roland caught her arm as she began to leave.
“You be careful,” he warned her. “I’m tempted to have you stay with me . . . or Nick. I never want to take you to the hospital again.”
Blake patted the hand gripping her forearm. “You won’t have to. I’ll be fine.” Mouth set, she walked back over to the bar. Her boss, Kevin, a balding man with friendly features and a thick neck, raised one bushy eyebrow at her as she approached. He held a steaming pint glass, fresh from the dishwasher he was unloading.
“Someone messin’ with you, Blake, honey?”
“I’m okay, but I need to head out a little early tonight.”
He looked around at the light Thursday crowd. “That’s fine. You’ve never asked for time off before.” He squinted at her through the steam coming off the washer. “You’re positive you’re okay?”
“Positive.”
“All right. Close out and let Cindy know to cover your section.”
“Got it.”
Roland left as she was closing out, much to Cindy’s irritation, if the glare she threw in Blake’s direction was any indication. Blake ignored her and finished tallying her checks and transferring her open orders to Cindy. Once she was finished, she went to the back to get her coat and purse from the employee break area near the alley entrance to the pub.
Hurriedly donning her coat, Blake pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and unlocked it, scrolling through her contact list as she left through the back door and walked to the corner, where another narrow alley cut between the buildings and out toward the main street.
She glanced around warily as the phone rang in her ear.
“Detective O’Halloran.”
“Maura, it’s Blake Webster.”
“Blake? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, but I just spoke to Roland—you remember my friend—and he said that Keenan is back in Boston.”
“Have you heard from him?”
Blake looked around as she approached Congress Street, looking for any threats and also for Nick, worried that he’d change his mind about avoiding her now that she wanted him to stay away.
She didn’t see him, so she kept walking and talking at the same time. “No, I didn’t get a letter this year, but you told me to call if I heard anything.”
“I’m glad you did. I’ll look into it. Do you have someplace safe to stay tonight?”
<
br /> Blake intended to stay in her apartment for the moment. It wasn’t leased in her name, but in the name of a dummy corporation that Nick and Roland had created. That didn’t mean it was safe. Keenan knew where she was; his letters had found her every year, and more often than not they hadn’t been mailed but left on her door. Still, it’d been ten years and he’d never acted on his threats. Maura had suspected that he’d left the country ten years ago and hadn’t been able to return without risking arrest. Blake had begun to believe it, even though deep down she hadn’t trusted any threat of arrest to keep him away forever.
“Yes, I’ll be fine.” She sounded more confident than she felt.
“Okay, good. I’d like to talk to your friend Roland, as well. If he’s the one that has evidence of Shy being in Boston.”
Blake pursed her lips thoughtfully. Roland didn’t seem to care much for cops, and he hadn’t exactly gotten along with Maura O’Halloran when she’d been a uniformed officer and had ended up taking Blake’s statement ten years ago. Blake had shared the letters Keenan sent her, largely because Maura had another cold case connected to Keenan and she checked in with Blake periodically.
“I’ll ask him to contact you.”
“Good enough,” Maura said and hung up.
Blake hesitated for a moment with her hand poised above her phone. Part of her wanted to call Nick, wanted the security of knowing that she was safe. One thing she knew with absolute certainty: Nick Cord would protect her.
Blake closed her eyes. She didn’t want to need protection. Didn’t want to be seen like someone who needed to be protected. She wanted to be a normal person with a normal life. Was that too much to ask?
5
IT WASN’T LIKE he was hiding, exactly. It was just that sometimes it was better to avoid conflict. Or so Nick told himself as he paced in his penthouse apartment. He didn’t spend much time in it, so it was neat and free of any personal clutter. His living room held a long modern couch in dark brown leather and a blue chair and ottoman. A massive flat-screen TV filled one corner and a stone fireplace dominated the wall across from the couch. He didn’t actually use either one that often. Generally, he only turned on the TV when Milton or Roland stopped by and wanted to play video games or look at code on the big screen.
He actually owned the entire building. He’d bought the old warehouse in the Waterfront District and hired a company to convert it into loft apartments several years earlier. He’d kept the two-story penthouse for himself and sold the rest, but he rarely stayed in it. He owned a couple of yachts, one that he lived on in the summer, and a jet that he used to fly to properties he owned around the world. Money had given him more space than any man needed, and yet sometimes he still felt like it wasn’t enough.
With an irritated shrug, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the boats moored in the harbor, and looked out at the darkness. She wanted to fuck him.
His toes curled against the hardwood floors at the thought and he nearly groaned aloud. She wanted to use him for sex without fear of dependence or abuse . . . she wanted to experiment with him. Blake, naked in his bed, her beautiful breasts thrust forward, nipples tight.
Cursing, he turned away from the window. Damn, damn, damn.
He padded into his workroom, which was technically a formal dining room, complete with an extravagant crystal chandelier, but he’d lined one wall with long tables and a rolling chair. Milton had something similar that he’d put together in his finished attic, but Milton collected all manner of toys and projects, while Nick preferred to focus on one thing at a time. Right now he was designing an integration program that would join one of their decryption software models to a facial recognition program using a blood knot as a model for the underlying structure. He’d tied dozens and dozens of blood knots—a fishing knot used to connect two separate pieces of line—as he’d worked on the program, and laid them out in a neat row across the tables.
He picked up one of them and held it in both hands, running his fingers over the loops where the two ropes were joined. They were beautiful in their symmetry, in the graceful way they were intertwined, almost like lovers.
“Blake.” He cursed and slapped the knot back down on the table.
She was the only person who could do this to him, twist him up and make him crazy. If he slept with her, it would only get worse. He knew what she tasted like now, knew the softness of her lips, the feel of her tongue tasting him. How much worse would it be if he knew what it was like to taste her, worship her, slide inside her?
Abruptly, he fell to the floor and began doing push-ups with single-minded ferocity. He’d reached one hundred and five when his phone rang. In a smooth motion, he leapt into a standing position and stalked back into the living room where he’d left it sitting on a table. Roland.
“What’s up?” he asked, making sure that his agitation didn’t show in his voice.
“Not much.” Roland sounded as though he was walking somewhere. In the background, there was a honk and the sound of a car passing by.
Nick waited. Roland never called without a reason. Milton would, sometimes, but not Roland. “What’s wrong?” Nick knew that Roland had gone by the Hairy Lemon, that he’d seen Blake. “Is Blake pissed because I didn’t come by the bar?”
“She wasn’t thrilled, but she’s okay.”
“She’s okay?” That usually meant she was going to get revenge by borrowing his car.
“Yeah.” Roland sounded almost surprised. “She’s tougher than she used to be.”
“Tougher how?”
“Just tougher, more independent. I’m proud of her.”
Nick didn’t say anything for a minute. Proud of her? He’d never thought about Blake in terms of pride. She was beautiful, clever, troubled, and she made him crazy. Proud of her . . . yeah, he could see why Roland would say that. She had been living alone for over a year. She hadn’t gotten involved with anyone, she’d seen a counselor, and was going to a support group. She wanted to go back to school. She’d come up with ideas for the kids at the hospital. Hell, he was proud of her.
“Yeah,” he agreed. His fingers tightened on the phone.
“I’m headed back to the office for a little while, see if I can’t work out that glitch with the facial-expression analysis for anyone under thirteen.”
“OK.” Nick nodded and hung up the phone, not bothering to say goodbye. Blake was tougher than she used to be . . . not really. She’d always been tough. He’d always thought she got involved with abusive assholes because initially they made it seem like they needed her, that she and only she could make them complete. Blake, his otherwise feisty, quick-witted friend, had no willpower when it came to people who said they needed her. She let them take and take and still managed to stay who she was, for the most part. That was one reason why he stayed away from her. He didn’t want to be another person who took from her, and how could he not . . . with this all-consuming need gripping him?
He walked to the window and looked out into the blackness at the twinkling lights on the bobbing ships. If she knew how much he really wanted her, how thoughts of her lingered in his head, would she really be willing to try her little experiment? Would he suck the life out of her—the same way all those other assholes had? His father had drained the will and spirit out of several women, all of them beautiful, and all of them had left eventually, not because he hadn’t loved them, but because of the all-consuming need that he’d had for them.
She wanted to fuck him. She wanted him to help her.
“Damn it,” he muttered, and went to put on his shoes. He’d never denied her anything. He didn’t know why the hell he’d thought he could start now.
“So, this Keenan, he was your first?”
Blake knew that Rosa, a woman she’d met a year ago at the battered women’s support group, wasn’t referring to her first sexual encounter; she was referring to Blak
e’s first abusive relationship. She’d called Rosa rather than turning to Nick and asked to meet at a local bar near the church where the battered women’s support group met on Tuesday nights.
“Yeah,” Blake acknowledged, and took a sip of wine. She’d decided she didn’t want to go back to her apartment. Of all the women she’d met at the support group, Rosa seemed like the least likely person to ever be abused. Dark-haired and blunt, the Hispanic woman had a scar that cut across her upper lip and her nose bent slightly to the left. She wore her dark hair in messy waves and sported an eyebrow ring.
“First one sucks. If you’re smart, that’s it and you learn your lesson. But most of us don’t learn that fast.”
Blake had heard Rosa say this before many times, and the fact that it was true didn’t make her own stupidity any easier to understand. But participating in the support group had taught her that all kinds of women fell victim to abuse. Rosa’s first husband had nearly killed her twice before she’d shot and killed him ten years ago. Blake still found the idea of Rosa being vulnerable to anyone incredible.
The older woman worked as a trainer at a local fitness center and as a self-defense instructor part-time. She donated self-defense training lessons to women in the shelter or to those who attended the support group meeting. Blake had never been a fan of working out—she’d never needed to work out to stay slim—but being slender had never helped her when Keenan, or Carlos, or Phillip had decided that she needed to be punished.
Roland had taught her several tricks for disarming an opponent, and she had clever fingers for thievery, and for escaping a hold, but she didn’t feel particularly capable when it came to fending off an outright attack.
“I’ve learned my lesson.” Blake met Rosa’s eyes. “I want to learn how to defend myself.”
“’Bout time.” Rosa had been trying to get Blake to learn self-defense techniques for months. She pulled out her phone and pressed a few buttons. “How’s tomorrow morning for you?”
Blake nodded. Her shift didn’t begin until five or so. “Do I need any equipment?” She wasn’t sure how she’d pay for it if she did. Money would be tight this week without tonight’s tips.
A French Whipping Page 5
