Break Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 2)

by Tiffany Snow

  Mia fussed over me, keeping her eyes averted from Clark, and I realized she didn’t know how to treat him. She didn’t know much about our relationship other than he’d treated me poorly once upon a time.

  “I’ll check in on you tomorrow,” Clark said, watching Mia tuck a blanket over my legs as though I were paralyzed rather than just temporarily ambulatory-impaired.

  “Thank you,” I said to Clark as he headed for the door. He paused and glanced around. “For everything.”

  He nodded, the shadow of a smile flitting across his face, then he was gone.

  “What can I get you? Are you hungry? Do you need anything?” Mia seemed very upset about the whole thing, which upset me.

  “I’m fine, I swear,” I told her. “I just would love a bath. And my hair hasn’t been washed in four days.” Which was totally eww. “There’s enough grease in my hair to lube my Mustang.”

  “I can help with that,” she said, jumping to her feet.

  Ten minutes later, she’d run a bath and was helping me into the bathroom. It was a little uncomfortable, undressing in front of my niece, but she was as professional as a nurse and soon I was soaking in steaming hot water, my injured leg propped on the edge of the tub.

  “So what’s going on with you and Clark?” she asked, folding my Laura-Ashley-esque dress.

  “What do you mean?” I hedged.

  “Well, you used to hate him,” she said, “and now you’re all BFFs. I just don’t know where I’m supposed to land on this. Is he off my shit list?”

  “He’s a work colleague,” I said. “And . . . he’s been extremely helpful in getting me medical attention and making sure I could recover. So . . . you should probably be nice.”

  “But he totally treated you bad, Aunt Chi,” she protested. “He was mean to you.”

  I took a deep breath. “I know. But sometimes it takes a while before two people learn enough about each other to get along. We didn’t start out well, but we’re much better now. I don’t think he’ll be . . . mean to me . . . again.”

  She locked eyes with me and after a moment, she nodded.

  “Okay. Holler if you need me.”

  I sat in the tub until the water turned cool, mulling over all the things that were wreaking havoc on my life at the moment. From Lu and his mysterious disappearance, to the DoJ effectively holding Jackson hostage. It was enough to make a girl want a bottle of wine.

  Mia reappeared after a bit. “Are you ready to get out?”

  “Yeah. Though I still couldn’t wash my hair.” The maneuverings proved too complex and arduous for me and I’d given up.

  “We can take care of that. Turn around.”

  Glancing questioningly at her, I nonetheless obeyed. Turning around, I positioned my leg on the opposite side and leaned back.

  Mia had started the water again, testing it for the right temperature. I leaned back, closing my eyes, and felt her hands gently direct the water through my hair.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked. It was a thankless task, though I appreciated it immensely, barely suppressing a moan as the hot water flowed over my scalp.

  “Because I love you, obviously.”

  The room was quiet save for the splashes of water as she shampooed and conditioned my hair. I felt pampered and . . . loved. I didn’t let my hairdresser wash my hair because the idea of using the same sink as countless other strangers made my OCD alarm go off. Therefore, no one had washed my hair for me since before my mom had died.

  That thought brought back memories of her humming as she poured carafes of warm water over my head, suds slipping down my back. Time supposedly healed, but I never thought of my mom without the sharp pang of loss in my chest. I’d made my way without her, but she’d been the one person who’d understood and accepted me unconditionally.

  It dawned on me that, in Mia, I’d found someone else who didn’t require me to change before they loved me. She, too, knew who I was and loved me anyway. It was a poignant revelation and I was even more grateful she’d decided to return rather than stay home.

  Mia helped me dry off and get into my beloved Star Wars pajamas. We didn’t say much and I thought she could probably tell that my emotional state was fragile. Now that I was home, I could finally relax. The trauma of my injury and not hearing from Jackson for so long was hitting me hard. I felt the way you do when you’re on the verge of tears, but you’re able to hold them back just fine. Until someone looks at you—really looks at you—and asks, “Are you okay?” Then you burst into sobs. That was how I felt. That any moment something would push me over the edge into a blubbering mess, and I was afraid if Mia was any nicer to me, that’s just what I would do.

  “Get some sleep,” she said, putting her arms around me. “Text me if you need anything.”

  I nodded, hugging her hard and trying to convey what I couldn’t put into words. I kissed her cheek and gave her one last squeeze before she turned out the light and softly shut the door.

  17

  Mia was a godsend over the next few days, helping me with my crutches and waiting on me to the point that I had to tell her to go sit down and stop hovering. I made her promise not to tell her dad because if she did, then he would tell my other brother, and my dad, and I didn’t want them to start a family intervention about my job and have to explain how I got shot while programming computers. I’d been pretty vague about my new job, but my family hadn’t pressed for details. To them, I did “something with computers,” which was enough information.

  I called Gammin after a week of not hearing anything from Jackson, and I didn’t waste time with social niceties.

  “Why is the DoJ still holding Jackson?” I asked. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “No, but he’s picked a fight with Lu, who has powerful people protecting him.”

  “Why? The Chinese aren’t exactly our friends.”

  “No, but his company is expanding underwater infrastructure to carry more bandwidth that he can sell. It’ll cost well over a billion dollars. Only three companies in the world can do that kind of job, and one is a US-based corporation.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “And let me guess, they’re big donors to the president’s reelection campaign.”

  “Politics is one big game of you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours,” he said.

  “Jackson already did what you wanted. He finished Vigilance for you,” I argued. “Isn’t it time for you to scratch his back?”

  “Jackson’s a big boy. He knew what he was getting into. He’s just on the losing side of this one.”

  “But the DoJ could trump up charges against him, indict him for collaborating with enemies of the state. He could lose Cysnet.”

  “Then he should consider his next move carefully, perhaps negotiate a truce with Lu.”

  “We don’t even know where Lu is,” I said. “And it’s wrong to let Jackson pay the price just because of some underground cabling project.”

  “I need to go,” Gammin said, his voice cold. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing better. I trust you’ll be back at work soon?”

  I was furious. “Listen to me, Gammin. If you don’t do something and get Jackson out of trouble, I’m going to make sure your boss never gets reelected.”

  Silence.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I know what he did twelve years ago, and I have the evidence to prove it. The president won’t have a snowball’s chance in hell at reelection once I get through.” I knew I was taking a big chance, threatening Gammin like this. But I also felt I had no choice.

  “I’ll . . . consider your offer,” he said.

  “You have until morning.” I ended the call. Now I just had to wait and hope Gammin came through because I really didn’t want to follow through on my threat. Wearing sweats, glasses, and my hair in a ponytail, I didn’t exactly look like a master blackmailer.

  My leg was well enough to stand and walk on it by now. The doctor had said I was very lucky, that the bullet
was likely a ricochet. If it had been a direct hit, the damage would’ve been much worse.

  Yeah, that’s how I felt. Lucky.

  “Lucky, my ass,” I grumbled to myself as I foraged in the fridge for dinner. Bonnie had brought by two casseroles when she found out I’d been hurt. Only one had been edible. Not even the stray dog I sometimes fed out back would touch the other one.

  Tonight wasn’t Monday, but I had a craving for pizza. I deliberated for a while, even dialing twice before hanging up both times. Routines were routine for a reason and technically tonight was breakfast-for-dinner Thursday, but I didn’t feel like cooking. With a sigh, I picked up my cell again.

  It took repeating my name three times before they believed it was actually me. Then when Reggie arrived with my pizza, he asked me twice if I was all right and if there was anything wrong.

  “Just felt like pizza,” I said with a forced smile. Was it really so bizarre for me to order pizza on another night of the week? I asked Mia as we were stuffing our faces and she rolled her eyes.

  “You’re joking, right?” She plucked a piece of pepperoni from her slice and ate it. “If I put the milk back in the refrigerator with the handle on the wrong side, you get all twitchy.”

  “But why would you put it on the right? You open the door with your right and reach in with your left. It just makes sense you’d turn it so the handle is on the left.” A logical and obvious choice.

  “I get it. It’s just that some things are really important to you that aren’t important to other people. And your routine is one of them.”

  “Routine is good,” I said, defending myself. “Our bodies and minds like routine. Then we know what to expect and can be prepared for surprises.” Not that I liked surprises. Though lately, they seemed to like me a lot.

  She winked at me. “I don’t mind. I think your OCD is one of your endearing qualities.”

  “I’ve been more flexible lately,” I said, and maybe it sounded a little pouty.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Aunt Chi, I don’t think there’s anything bad about you being the way you are. Truly. You don’t have to apologize or change.” She gave me a fierce hug. “I love you just the way you are.”

  “I love you, too,” I blurted, surprising both her and myself. Her smile was blinding.

  “I know you do,” she said. “But it’s nice to hear.”

  We settled back, chewing our pizza and queuing up the episode of Supernatural that I’d missed. It felt good not to be alone.

  By the next morning, I’d still heard nothing from Gammin. I knew I had to play my last card.

  You couldn’t just ring up the president of the United States, even if you had the number. To bypass all the layers of security and bureaucrats around him, you had to have the number and know how to enter it. Some numbers were pressed longer than others, and there were pauses at different times. Lucky for me, this was one of those handy pieces of information that was on Jackson’s thumb drive.

  I counted to three before pressing the next number and holding it for two beats. Three numbers in rapid succession, then held down the last number for another two beats. I put the phone to my ear and waited.

  There was a clicking sound on the line, then it began to ring. I held my breath and waited, my palms sweaty at what I was about to do. Only the thought of Jackson losing everything kept me from hanging up.

  “Hello?”

  It was a voice I’d heard countless times on television, and my breath let out in a whoosh.

  “Mr. President,” I said, my mind suddenly going blank.

  “Who is this? How did you get this number?” He sounded irritated. I’d irritated the leader of the free world.

  “That’s not important,” I said, getting my head back in the game. “I have something I think you’ll want very much.”

  “Really?” he asked, his sarcasm thick. “You haven’t even identified yourself and now I’m supposed to believe you have something I want?”

  I took a deep breath and told him what I had. There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “I see,” he said at last. His voice no longer held sarcasm or irritation, but was deathly serious. “I won’t ask how you came to be in possession of that.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you anyway,” I replied. “But I’ll give it to you, if you give me something in return.”

  “Please don’t let it be money. That would be incredibly boring and predictable.”

  “No, sir. I don’t want money. I want a pardon.”

  It took me over two hours to drive to the Air Force base in Norfolk, Virginia. I was nervous about getting through the gate, but the guard looked at my ID, then waved me through. A man standing next to a Jeep was waiting on the other side and he approached my window.

  “Please follow me,” he said once I’d lowered the glass. “And don’t deviate.”

  I nodded, but he was already heading back to his vehicle. The headlights swung around, illuminating the darkness, and I followed in his wake.

  The base was massive and busy. While I was driving, I saw several planes take off and land. We were headed toward one of the runways and the huge hangars that flanked them, when he slowed to a stop.

  Sticking his arm out the window, he motioned me toward a parking lot. I understood and drove into it, finding a relatively close space, then joined him in his Jeep. We didn’t speak and once I’d shut the door, he was off again.

  As we neared the hangars, I saw a huge plane waiting, lit up. The airstairs were down and were guarded by two men in uniform. On the side of the plane were written the words United States of America. Air Force One, in colloquial terms. My heart rate doubled.

  The airman driving me took me within twenty feet of the stairs, then stopped. I figured it was showtime and got out, though I wasn’t moving very fast. My leg ached and I was trying to compose myself. My nerves were strung so tight it felt as though I might snap at any moment.

  The guards didn’t look at me or say a word as I passed them and began climbing the stairs. I felt very small next to the massive plane. There was no door and no one to greet me, so I gingerly poked my head inside.

  Another airman, this one in a different uniform, glanced up from where he was tidying up. He smiled politely. “China?”

  “Yes.”

  “This way, please.”

  He led me straight through two doors, past a lounge area with plush, leather seating, then up a set of stairs. I’d never been in a plane with stairs inside before and it felt claustrophobic.

  At the top of the stairs, he turned right and rapped on a closed door. A voice called to come in and he opened it.

  “Your guest is here, sir.”

  “Show her in.”

  The voice was one of command and I instinctively cringed before I caught myself. Straightening my spine, I moved past the crew member and stepped into the room.

  It was a conference room and the president was seated in the head chair at an oval table. The door closed softly behind me and I was left in indecision. Should I sit down? Should I wait for him to tell me to sit down? He wasn’t royalty, so I shouldn’t bow or anything, but was there some kind of protocol for this?

  He got to his feet and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, China.”

  I shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. President. Likewise.” That seemed right. At least, he didn’t look appalled at any breach of etiquette.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Deciding to forego overthinking it, I sat on his right with one chair separating us. I felt underdressed in my jeans, tennis shoes, and black T-shirt with the silhouette of a doe and the word Always printed underneath. The president was wearing a suit and tie that oozed expensive elegance. His hair was a dirty blonde carefully cut and smoothed back from his forehead. His eyes were a dusky gray-green that seemed to see right through me. He was taller and bigger than I thought he’d be, at least six foot two and his shoulders were as wide as Clark’s.

  “Thank you for seeing me,
sir,” I said, my nerves getting to my tongue. “I know you must be really busy.” Duh. He was the president of the United States, China. Yeah, he probably had a To Do list.

  “You didn’t exactly leave me a choice, now, did you?” he asked. Even I could recognize that as a rhetorical question, so I didn’t reply. “It’s not often I’m threatened by a private citizen,” he continued.

  “Sir, I’m not threatening you,” I hastened to say. “I swear. I’m just hoping we might . . . reach a mutually beneficial compromise.”

  “You say you have evidence of me committing murder,” he said dryly. “That’s quite a statement. And you knew my private line. Those two pieces of information make you a very dangerous person, China. And dangerous people tend to be in danger.”

  I swallowed. “Now it sounds like you’re threatening me.”

  “I’m not a threat to you,” he said. “I just want us both to know where we stand. You say you have incredibly damaging evidence of a felony I allegedly committed. Why don’t we discuss that?”

  First, I glanced around the room, wondering who was listening. As if he read my thoughts, the president said, “This room is soundproof and cannot be penetrated by any device to eavesdrop. It’s the communications room and I assure you, our conversation will remain private.”

  I had no choice but to trust him, so I gave a curt nod. “Very well. I have in my possession a report made by the FBI on the suicide of a senator twelve years ago. I believe you knew that senator.”

  “He was my great-uncle, yes.” No other emotion. Just a statement of fact.

  “One member of the forensics team disagreed with the findings and wrote a counter report, arguing that the death could not have been suicide. Not with the trajectory of the bullet or the wound. He argued that the senator had been murdered.”

  He said nothing, so I continued. “Only you and two other people were in that room, Mr. President. A woman and another man. All of you told the exact same story, which was accepted as fact, despite the ludicrousness of the idea that a seventy-year-old senator could’ve committed suicide in front of three people without anyone being able to stop him.” This time I waited out his silence.