by Stella Rhys
“Get on your feet now.”
I’m going, I swear, my lips tried to utter. But then I looked up at his face and the breath snatched from my throat.
Despite a warrior’s build, he had the looks of a royal – piercing blue eyes under strong, dark brows. A long, straight nose. The squarest jaw and most sculpted lips I’d ever seen. He was stunning. The kind of unreal beauty I was used to seeing on billboards, red carpets – not in dark alleys, gleaming with sweat and flecked in what I hoped to God wasn’t blood. My pulse jumped into my throat when he spoke again, his low voice rumbling like a mounting storm.
“You have two seconds to walk away on your own.”
His wolfish glare blazed into me, paralyzing every inch of my body. My lips parted but said nothing and when I failed to move, he dropped the pipe and started forward.
“No – ” I managed something like the word as I cowered from his imposing frame. But just as he lifted me like a ragdoll, another voice rang out in the alley.
“The fuck we do with this now?”
I turned around, my wide eyes landing on a blonde man in a suit, dragging something heavy that he dropped to the ground when he saw me.
A body.
I heard its lifeless leg fall with a thud before my eyes traveled to his head, still pouring thick, red blood. My stomach turned as I then fixed my stare on the gash of white gleaming above his eye.
His skull.
My hair was yanked back the second before I keeled over and heaved.
chapter two
I jerked awake once my eyes opened. My resting pulse spiked.
This wasn’t my room.
My room was a small, windowless square big enough to fit one twin-sized mattress and IKEA shelf. This room was twelve times the size with arched windows and a wrought iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Sprawled with me on the mattress was a plush duvet and a half-dozen pillows cased in ivory silk. Everything in my vicinity screamed money. Opulence. But despite the luxury comforts, my heart was pounding out of my chest. A million awful things had happened last night but my mind was taking too long to catch up and recall.
The second it did, a gasp ripped from my throat.
Evan. That dark alley. The warrior of a man gleaming in fresh sweat and blood. I’d wound up in his car last night. I’d let a stranger who’d split another man’s head open take me back to his home. “Fuck.” My heavy limbs scrambled to get out of bed but the second I moved, the door swung open. I froze.
Holy shit.
Pressed against the leather headboard, I couldn’t do a thing but stare at what stood taking up the doorframe – the six feet and four inches of walking, breathing danger that I should fear with every fiber of my being. I’d been drunk last night but I was sure that I’d witnessed the brutal aftermath of something he’d been responsible for. His presence alone should have had me running and screaming for my life. But I was doing neither. It was as if I’d been hit with a tranquilizer. Staring at him, I couldn’t think. I could hardly breathe.
“Good morning, Isla.”
His greeting sounded nothing like his voice from last night. It was velvet compared to gravel. He looked different too. His wet hair was almost black, his long eyelashes spaced into perfect triangles too sweet and boyish to match that Spartan build. As he came closer, I could tell he was fresh out of the shower. He smelled good and his T-shirt, struggling to stretch across his chest, was flecked with a million little droplets of water. I couldn’t stop staring but suddenly, my eyes narrowed.
I’d lost my driver’s license weeks ago and no longer kept my credit cards in my wallet. I wouldn’t have the cash to pay off the charges and the last thing I needed was more debt. Knowing this, I peered up at him.
“How do you know my name?”
He was unapologetic. “I read it off the back of Elle’s notes.”
Fire lit my eyes.
It was sudden, uncontrollable, and while I tried to calm myself down, possibly for my own fucking safety, I couldn’t. “You went through my things?” Fury shook my voice. I couldn’t help it. There was nothing in my wallet but sentimental value – a dozen school portraits of Elle and the series of silly notes she’d written me before she died. “There was no reason for you to touch any of that,” I seethed, embarrassed on my sister’s behalf. Scribbled behind those photos were a million secret fantasies of the girl she would’ve been had she lived to see high school. Medium-tall and pretty like you, she wrote. My hair would be as long as yours and I’d have a pair of ripped jeans like the black ones you have, but mine would be blue and I would wear them with my cherry Doc Martens. And I’d be badass but not AS bad as you used to be :D so Mom doesn’t go crazy :D :D
Fuck. My sanity was a house of cards I built before stepping out my house every morning, and it flattened to nothing when I thought of Elle. Three weeks till her would-be thirteenth. Through tears, I stared down at my hands, folding them together and pressing them into my lap to keep them still. I had nothing to say. He indulged my silence for longer than I expected.
“I have no interest in your personal life. I was looking for an emergency contact.”
“I don’t have one,” I muttered. Holly was my emergency contact but I hoped to never see her again, so it was hardly a lie. “And I don’t know what happened last night. I don’t know what I saw, so just please let me go.”
“You can go. I wasn’t holding you hostage.”
I looked up at him, at the smirk I detected despite no curve on his lips. His voice was a low, smooth rumble and tinged with amusement, it made my heart pound.
“You’re here because you passed out in the alley last night and despite my friend’s suggestions, I preferred not to leave you there.”
Right. There had been a friend. He had dragged the body over but it was this wise ass who’d held the metal pipe. I stared at him. “What’s your name?”
“Abram.”
I blinked. A deceivingly nice-sounding name. It matched him and it didn’t. “And you’re telling me that I can just go.”
“Yes.” He leaned back on his heels and slid his hands in his pockets. “I only came in here to apologize about your dress.”
I paused. Only then did I think to look down at myself. Lifting the duvet off my body, I stared. Are you kidding me. I’d been stripped down to my panties. The fact that he had seen and touched me naked sent my cheeks aflame. I shot him daggers. “You took my clothes off?”
“I had a hunch you’d prefer not to sleep in your own vomit,” Abram said. He looked to the side. “I also preferred you not sleep in your own vomit.”
My face burned. “I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.”
“I’m more than aware of that.” When I glared, he returned with a look of boredom. “And while I recognize stellar assets when I see them, I generally prefer my naked women conscious. So if you’re looking at me like that because you think I took any liberties with your body last night, you can breathe. That’s not an evil I partake in.”
I clenched my teeth. But killing is, I thought, indignant. But I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t remember last night. That was my story and I was sticking to it. In fact, I’d already begun turning in what memories I had, hoping my hangover would claim them and leave me with truly no recollection. I wanted nothing to do with this. Any of it. Abram was the most beautiful man I’d ever lay eyes on, but if never seeing him again meant that I could pretend last night didn’t happen, then great. My life was already in need of massive cleanup without this. I’d left my job because the kids made me think of Elle. With her bills paid, my parents were back to denying my existence. I was a month behind on rent and Evan was marrying Holly. So truly, the last thing I needed was to be the sole witness to what I guessed was a murder. I didn’t have the mental capacity for that. Or the time. What little I had left was being used to dig out of the hole I’d buried myself in since Elle’s funeral. I had to work to do.
I blinked, suddenly compelled to look at the clock.
&nbs
p; “Shit, I’m late,” I hissed, nearly bursting from bed till I remembered that I was naked. I cut my eyes to Abram. “I need my dress back.”
“I trashed it,” he said. And before I could retort, he gripped the hem of his shirt, peeling it straight off his torso. I stared.
Holy. Christ.
I forgot how to blink. I couldn’t do it even once as I took in the lines of his chest, his abs, every finely muscled rib – they were cut so deep my jaw dropped like a brick to the floor. But I snapped it shut, hopefully before he could notice.
“Take this.” He held out the soft, grey T-shirt. “It should fit like a dress on you.”
I had no other choice. Pulling it on, I tried not to let his scent intoxicate me but it must’ve because I let him take my hand to help me out of bed. On my feet, I looked down to see the shirt just covering my panties. “It’s not long enough to wear out,” I muttered, keeping my eyes off his body for fear that I’d never stop staring if I looked again.
“Fine.” There was a hint of mischief in Abram’s voice and I felt his eyes glued to me as I then heard it – the distinct jangling of a metal buckle.
What. Are you doing.
And just like that, I stared again, stunned as he undid his jeans – belt, button, then zipper before pushing the denim down his muscled legs. My mouth parted. I couldn’t break my gaze even when he caught it, flashing a smirk that I could actually see. It touched the right corner of his lips and stole my breath so easily I resented it.
“Here.” In boxer briefs, Abram tossed me his jeans. The world’s most devilish grin twisted his mouth as he watched me look. At everything. “Call it even,” he said with a laugh that set every inch of me on fire. “And get dressed. I’ll have my driver take you to work.”
chapter three
Something was off about table eight.
I tried not to think about it as I weaved through my section at Alma’s, the Upper East Side diner I’d been at since leaving my job at the elementary school. It was a mindless gig and busy enough to keep me distracted. All I really had to do was smile, refill coffee and listen to anecdotes about sassy grandkids. Our clientele was largely older and easy to get along with if you didn’t keep them hungry. Conversation often got repetitive but this week, I needed those stories I’d heard a thousand times about the post office or Emma’s tap recital. They were the best ways to remind myself that this – this was my world.
Not Abram. Not that breathtaking building he lived in.
All that needed to be quickly forgotten.
After leaving his penthouse three days ago, I’d still been reeling. I was still thinking about him. It was impossible not to. He’d given me the clothes off his muscled back and called for a black Range Rover to drive me to work. The handler who took me into the elevator gave me five hundred dollars to replace my dress. I’d then gone down fifty floors in dazed shock before even realizing where I was.
At the famed Monarch Hotel in Chelsea.
I knew of the place. Everyone did. It had been recently crowned the tallest hotel in all of Manhattan. Before going up, its blueprints had been profiled in magazines, the Times, the Daily News. I had coworkers who prayed about millionaire friends who could possibly get them into opening night. On the L, I watched beautiful girls change out of stilettos and gripe about being turned away from its doors. On the news, it was always a story in either business or entertainment. Barely two years old and the Monarch was already legendary – an unattainable fantasyland for only the wealthy and stunning elite.
And there I was on a random Sunday, leaving its penthouse floor.
In the days that followed, I banned myself from Google. I hadn’t had a single productive thought since leaving Abram’s place and all I’d done was look at him. Clearly, I didn’t need to read up on his personal life or career or whatever information the Internet had to offer. So I picked up extra shifts at Alma’s and to my relief, the back-to-back doubles had me quickly tired and distracted enough to think of non-Abram-related things.
Not that I could completely erase him. I had a feeling that no one ever laid eyes on him and then ever forgot. At random parts of the day, his torso flashed through my mind and I had to bite my lip and whisper “Jesus.” But that was inevitable and fine as long as I could still focus on my real world – which was my paint-chipped apartment and un-glamorous job at Alma’s, Manhattan’s favorite diner for geriatrics.
Though for once, a guest didn’t fit that description.
Table eight was one guy in his thirties with tattoos and a neck as thick as my thigh. He looked like a wrestler and barely spoke when I came around, but he did keep his dark eyes fixed on my every move through the dining room.
“He must have a thing against hot chicks,” Laurel decided after strutting past him for the fifth time without getting a look. “Or maybe I look like one of his exes,” she mused, tugging her uniform down to show more cleavage. Laurel was a former high school classmate whose mom had gone to Elle’s funeral. After hearing that I’d quit teaching, she referred me to Alma’s and for the first week, had been nothing but sweet. But then our GM, Reece, began flirting with me and cracking daily sex jokes. I laughed at none but Laurel dubbed me an “attention whore” and focused on making my life at work a thing of misery. If I weren’t so in need of cash, I’d have already quit.
“Or,” she touched a finger to her glossy lip. “He’s staring because it’s been ten minutes since you gave him coffee and still no cream or sugar. It’s not that hard, baby girl.”
Sure. I didn’t care to explain to Laurel that Tat Guy had asked for his coffee black. I remembered that because I was thankful I wouldn’t have to return to his table. The vibe I got from him was increasingly strange. And uncomfortable. He barely touched his coffee or burger and stared at me even while muttering on the phone. Maybe I’d seen too many movies but I couldn’t help getting nervous.
It felt as if he’d come here to watch me.
Flipping her hair, Laurel heaved a sigh. “Well, my section’s dead so I’m gonna bring Tattoo Babe some cream and make him fall in love with me,” she announced, waltzing off before I could say “he’s yours.” I’d never been so relieved to have Laurel steal one of my tables.
But two hours later, Tattoos was still there and he’d yet to stop watching me. Thankfully, Laurel was still trying to flirt with him by the time my shift ended, so without a word, I clocked out and left. Five minutes later, I was out the employee door, changed in record time and already pedaling my bike up First Avenue. In my rush, I’d left my helmet in my locker, but after four blocks of mental cursing I told myself it was a sign. I needed the peace of the breeze blowing through my hair. It felt nice and soothed my nerves, which was a feeling I needed these days.
But then I noticed the Yukon.
It was black with tinted windows. It had begun tailing me at Eighty-Ninth Street and when I made a sharp turn onto Ninety-First, it did the same. Not yet, I told myself not to panic. There was a chance I was just rattled from work and being paranoid. So I made another sharp turn.
He followed again.
Another turn. The same result.
My heart slammed. It was a sudden hammer pounding my ribs as I realized that this was real. I wasn’t paranoid. I was being followed and while I couldn’t see through the windshield, I was certain the man behind the wheel was my table eight. He hadn’t been watching me for no reason. Of course not. Why would I have thought it so easy? I had seen two men end the life of another – two men who were clearly rich and powerful, with everything to lose if I ever blabbed about what they’d done that night. Of course it wasn’t over.
Fuck. Blinking hard, I gasped for breath. I tried to stop it but that night came back in flashes before my eyes. Red blood. White skull. The scene from the alley was on loop in my head as I pedaled twice as fast as the cars around me, a blur of impossible speed as my hands sweated and my thighs burned. I was losing grip, scared out of my mind. Hair whipped in my face. The strands caught on my tongue.
Panicked, I glanced down at my handlebars for less than a second.
White knuckles. That was the last thing I saw before my head slammed into pavement.
chapter four
“Ah, ah. No sudden movements.”
A voice cooed in my ear. I blinked my eyes open. My vision focused but I recognized the smell before anything. I was in a hospital. I stared at the blonde nurse for all of a second before jolting up.
“No – ”
“Sit back,” she said firmly. “You have five stitches in your forehead and your body’s about to be pretty stiff for the next few days. I would suggest you take it easy.”
I stared at her. Five stitches? I reached up to touch them and felt one before she snatched my hand back.
“Stop.”
“I just – ”
“Your body needs to rest.”
“You don’t understand – ” Panic swallowed my manners as I resisted her touch.
“It doesn’t matter, you need to calm down.”
“I just – ” I let her push me back down. “I don’t have insurance,” I exhaled, defeated.
I had no money. Zero dollars. I’d already sent what Abram gave me to my landlord but even if I hadn’t, that wouldn’t have covered this. It was official: I had the worst luck in the world. Silent, dead inside, I started crunching the numbers of my latest mess. Well, I’ll definitely be missing my next couple shifts. I’d crashed my bike. An ambulance had probably come for me, which meant another six hundred dollars tacked onto my bill. God. In college, I’d brought a friend to the ER for choking on a vitamin. Her bill was over a thousand dollars so what the hell would this be? I looked up at the nurse, trying not to cry and make my panic her burden. “I’m sorry, but would you happen to know an estimate of how much this is going to – ”
“I don’t know, sweetheart.” She gazed down at me, pressing her lips into a line. “But I’ll go get your husband so you can discuss this with him.”
