Blank Slate

by Snow, Tiffany

  In moments, they had Langston on his feet. Clarissa cringed when they grabbed his arm. His face went white, and he gritted his teeth to keep from making a noise. It was nearly a physical pain to watch.

  “Clarissa, dammit, no!” Erik struggled, the pain shooting through his arm pure torture. His logical side was lost in a haze of rage and fear. He couldn’t leave her. Mendes was going to kill her; he knew it. “Clarissa!”

  They were dragging him toward the door. O’Connell wouldn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on Mendes. She looked so small and frail surrounded by the hulking men, but her face was an unreadable mask. If she was afraid of the near-certain death that loomed, she didn’t show it, calmly bargaining for his life with the only leverage she had.

  Herself.

  That was the last glimpse he had of her before they shoved him out the back door. An SUV was parked not far from the house. Erik knew they weren’t just going to let him go, no matter what Mendes has promised O’Connell, though it had been real sweet of her to try.

  Sweat poured from Erik’s body despite the cold, the agony in his shoulder reminding him of how much he detested hand-to-hand combat. It always hurt like a sonofabitch. His arm hung useless at his side.

  Well, that was certainly inconvenient, but he had to work with what he had. Now that it was two on one and not pitch-black like it had been when they’d first jumped him, it was time to take control of the situation.

  Erik stumbled, going down on one knee just as they were near the car. His right hand slipped under the hem of his jeans as the guy nearest him went to grab his arm to pull him to his feet.

  Erik leaped up, and the blade in his hand flashed. A moment later, the thug was clutching his neck, blood seeping through his fingers from the deep gash. His eyes were wide in shock. Erik had already turned to the other threat before the first guy even hit the ground.

  His remaining captor went for his gun but was too late, the knife buried to the hilt between his ribs. He collapsed as well.

  Erik’s gaze flashed back to the house, but there was no movement inside to indicate that anyone suspected what had just happened. Keeping an eye out, he searched and took the two guns off the men at his feet, retrieved his knife, then silently disappeared into the trees beyond the small clearing surrounding O’Connell’s home.

  Time to fix his shoulder.

  He found a solid tree with a thick trunk that looked like it could withstand a hit. Knowing he couldn’t make any noise, Erik grabbed a dry stick about as thick as his finger and bit down on it. Taking two deep breaths, he braced himself, then rammed his shoulder into the tree as hard as he could.

  The pain was agonizing and his knees weakened, sending him flat on his ass on the ground. Black edged his vision.

  No. There wasn’t time to pass out.

  He spit out the stick and stuck his head between his knees, taking slow, deep breaths. The pain was passing, though the shoulder was sore and tender. He wouldn’t be getting his full use out of it for a few days.

  At times like these, a desk job sounded like heaven on earth.

  Shouts from the house had Erik jumping to his feet and melting into the dark shadows of the trees. Moving silently, he found a position where he could see one of the other guys examining the bodies on the ground.

  He was too far away to shoot with the pistol Erik had, so he moved closer. But before he could get in range, the guy had disappeared back inside. Shit. Now they knew he wasn’t dead.

  A strangled cry came from inside the house.

  O’Connell.

  Panic leaped in his veins, but Erik forced himself to calm. He’d be no use to her if he panicked.

  Picking his path carefully, Erik approached the side of the house, sticking as much to the shadows as possible. Dawn was near, the sky lightening ever so slightly.

  O’Connell’s house was of the Old South style, a wrap-around porch on the first floor, with a wraparound terrace gracing the second. Erik climbed up on the porch balustrade and grasped the floor of the terrace about his head. His shoulder muscles screamed in protest, but he gritted his teeth and pulled himself up until he stood, panting, on the second floor.

  Using his knife, he jimmied the lock on the window, raised it soundlessly, and slipped into the house, landing in a crouch inside the darkened room.

  Erik listened, straining to hear where the four people in the house were. He knew Mendes was probably with O’Connell, but what about the other two?

  Knife in hand, Erik crept to the open doorway and peered around the edge.

  There. At the end of the hallway near the stairs. The two men stood together, the one O’Connell had nailed in the nuts talking.

  “You watch up here,” he ordered. “I’ll take downstairs. I want first crack at that bitch when Mendes is through with her.”

  “He ain’t gonna wanna mess around,” the other guy said. “He’s gonna want her dead so we can get outta here.”

  “There’ll be enough time to do what I gotta do.”

  With that chill warning, he headed down the stairs. Erik listened carefully to his footfalls. There. A squeak on the seventh step down. Quiet the rest of the way.

  The second guy gave a shrug and checked his ammunition clip before turning away to walk down the hall. Erik supposed he was going to check the rooms.

  Silently, Erik crept after him. The guy paused, and Erik had a split second to jump inside an open doorway. He held his breath. Had he seen him? Erik’s grip on his knife tightened.

  But there was nothing. He slowly exhaled.

  Peering around the doorframe, he saw the guy go into the last room at the end of the hall. Hurrying as fast as he dared, Erik followed, ducked into the room next to it, and waited.

  After a moment, the knob turned and Erik breathed, tensing. The guy stepped inside and past where Erik was hiding behind the door. Erik pounced, grabbing him by the hair and slicing his knife across the man’s throat. Blood spurted everywhere. He dropped to the ground.

  Adrenaline was spiking hard, burning away the pain in Erik’s shoulder and from the beating. He didn’t like having to kill these men, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. Not if he wanted himself and O’Connell to get out of here alive. And she was right on one count — they’d kill him in an instant if they could.

  Shouting from downstairs brought Erik’s head up. He crept to the stairs.

  “You need me, Xavier!” O’Connell was shouting.

  “I have everything I need,” he replied calmly. “You’ve been more trouble than you’re worth, Clarissa. And you and I both know it’s best to tie up loose ends. Finnegan, take care of her and call me when you’re through.”

  “Xavier! You bastard!”

  O’Connell’s furious shout was drowned by the slam of the front door. Not a moment later, O’Connell cried out in pain, and the sound of furniture breaking reached Erik’s ears. Sheathing his knife, he grabbed the gun from the small of his back and racked the slide.

  More sounds of struggling downstairs; the man cursed viciously, then glass shattered.

  Everything inside Erik was screaming for him to run, hurry, stop the bastard from hurting O’Connell. But he had to stay calm and think. If he got himself killed, O’Connell was dead.

  But that was a lot easier said than done when he heard her scream.

  “Fuck it,” he growled.

  Clarissa moaned, clutching her stomach. She’d gotten a good hit in with the heavy bookend she’d grabbed off a shelf, but he’d retaliated, punching her in the stomach and throwing her. She’d screamed, the sound abruptly cut off when she landed on a glass-and-wood coffee table. The glass had shattered on impact. Now she lay facedown on the rug that covered the wood floor.

  Hands closed around her ankles, jerking her backward. Clarissa struggled, her fingers scrabbling against the carpet. The rug burned against her skin, the tops of her thighs, her stomach, as the fabric of her dress bunched. She knew what was coming, and bile rose in her throat. Her fingers found a shard of
glass just as she was flipped onto her back.

  Clarissa surged upward, wielding the glass like a dagger. In a flash it was embedded in Finnegan’s chest, but it was too fragile and broke before going in very far.

  He yelled and backhanded her. Pain exploded in Clarissa’s head at the impact, and she collapsed again to the floor.

  A shot rang out.

  Finnegan grunted in pain, then somehow stumbled to his feet. Clarissa managed to raise her head, then stared in shock.

  Langston.

  He stood at the bottom of the staircase, a smoking gun in his steady grip. His shirt was torn and stained with blood, which was also oozing from the gash on his forehead. His hair was matted with sweat. Bloodstains marred the hand that held the gun.

  “We figured you’d run off,” Finnegan said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Decided to play the hero instead?”

  “O’Connell, you all right?” Langston asked her. His eyes stayed locked on Finnegan.

  Clarissa got painfully to her feet. Blood dripped lazily from her hand; the glass she’d used had cut her as well. The metallic taste of blood was also in her mouth, and she could already feel her cheek swelling. Her hands shook as she smoothed her dress back down.

  “I’m fine,” she rasped, her voice hoarse from screaming.

  Langston’s eyes flicked to her and widened. He looked her up and down carefully, and when his gaze returned to Finnegan, his face was a cold, hard mask.

  “You gonna arrest me?”

  “Not this time.”

  The gunshot startled Clarissa, and she jumped then watched, jaw agape, as the man crumpled. Langston looked completely unfazed as he hurried toward her, tucking the gun behind his back.

  “You shot him,” she said, stunned.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But…you don’t just kill people. You arrest them.” His behavior was incomprehensible.

  “I just served up justice and saved the taxpayers a lot of money.” Langston gently slid an arm around her waist and guided her into the kitchen. He started the water in the sink and held her bleeding hand under the flow.

  “But…why?”

  Langston finally looked her in the eyes. “Because he deserved it,” he said. His hand cradled her cheek, his thumb gently brushing the bruise forming there.

  It suddenly hit Clarissa that he was here, alive, when she’d never expected to see him again. He’d saved himself…and her.

  “Where else did he hurt you?” he asked, studying the cut on her lip from her teeth.

  Clarissa shook her head and pushed his hand away.

  “What—”

  Clarissa reached for him, yanking him down for a searing kiss. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair and holding him as close as possible.

  Langston needed no urging, his tongue surging inside to tangle with hers. A hand cupped the nape of her neck while his other arm pressed tightly against her waist.

  Passion, desperation, urgency. She could feel all of it in his kiss. And the only thoughts going through Clarissa’s mind: Langston was alive and she was living on borrowed time.

  When Langston pulled away, they were both breathing hard.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said. “What happened with Mendes? What did you give him?”

  “There’s a computer in the other room,” Clarissa said, struggling to focus. He still held her, his thumb absently stroking the back of her neck. “My files were on it along with the account list. He copied them to a flash drive and left.”

  “Will he be able to get the money?”

  She shook her head. “No. I put an encryption password on it as it was downloading. He doesn’t know it yet, but those files will be inaccessible without it.”

  “So you remember now?”

  Langston’s tone made her pause. “Not really. Maybe it was the pressure of what was going on, I don’t know, but when he made me copy the files, I was just trying to think of some way to stop him, and it came to me. Kind of like how I knew how to pick the handcuffs.”

  Something close to relief flashed across Langston’s face.

  “Let’s grab the computer and get out of here.” He stepped away and took her hand.

  Clarissa held tight to Langston, closely following him as they went to retrieve her second laptop from the den. She should probably take a moment, get a grip, but she couldn’t make herself step away or let go of him. She’d been moments from dying, and the fact that they were both alive was astonishing. By all rights, they should be dead.

  She followed him upstairs to the bedrooms as he searched for a room that looked to be hers. Clarissa saw the dead man on the floor in one, a pool of blood underneath the unmoving corpse.

  “That’s gonna leave a stain,” she murmured absently, unable to tear her gaze away.

  “What?” Langston asked, pulling her past the room.

  She shook her head. It wasn’t worth repeating, and she didn’t even know why she’d said it. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, though Langston was moving quickly.

  Her bedroom was foreign to her, the furnishings simple. It held a double bed with a plain white comforter, an old-fashioned rocking chair by the window, and a dresser. A couple of photos in frames were on top of the dresser. Herself with a man, his arm around her shoulders. She recognized him from her file that Langston had. That must be Danny, her brother. The other photo was of Danny as well, only this time she must have been the one taking the picture, because he was by himself.

  Langston grabbed some clothes from a closet and a pair of shoes. Taking her hand again, he led her back downstairs and helped her into his SUV. Moments later, they were speeding down the gravel road, the sun just now appearing over the horizon. Langston grabbed his sunglasses and put them on.

  He cast a few glances at Clarissa as he drove. She stared straight ahead.

  “You’re still shaking,” he said.

  Surprised, Clarissa glanced down. He still held her hand, and he was right. She could feel the fine tremors now. Weird that she hadn’t noticed. She looked at Langston, her brows raised.

  “Sorry? I’ll stop?” Sarcasm edged her words. She didn’t know what he expected her to do, exactly. It wasn’t like she could control it.

  Langston didn’t reply. His lips just thinned and his grip tightened on her hand.

  Clarissa looked back out the window. “I guess Raven betrayed me,” she mused. Not that it should have surprised her. Not that it did. “Do I know no one who won’t stab me in the back?”

  “I won’t.”

  Langston’s fervent declaration made Clarissa’s eyes sting. She refused to look at him, didn’t want him to see, and continued to stare out the window while tears rolled down her cheeks.

  * * *

  Erik’s concern for O’Connell only grew as he drove. She was silent as she stared out the passenger window, and the tight grip she had on his hand didn’t let up.

  She’d stopped trembling, thank God, but if he had to guess, Erik would say she was in shock. The trauma of this whole experience was bound to have an effect at some point, and her mind was already damaged from the amnesia.

  But he couldn’t do anything about that. All he could do was take care of her, keep her alive, and make sure she knew she wasn’t alone.

  “Where are we?” O’Connell asked when he pulled into the driveway of a three-story antebellum home on the outskirts of New Orleans.

  “A friend of my mom’s owns this place,” he said. “We need a place to clean up, get some rest, and figure out our next move.” Erik got out of the car and grabbed his jacket from the back. He opened O’Connell’s door, then swung the jacket over her shoulders. It concealed the worst of the damage to her dress.

  Her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed from crying. Erik’s gut twisted.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  He led her up the wide stairs to the porch, then knocked on the door. A few moments later, a woman answered. She looked surprised to se
e him.

  “Erik?” She took a good look at him. “Oh my goodness! What in the world happened to you?”

  “Hi, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “It’s a long story, but we really need a place to stay where people won’t ask questions. Do you have any rooms available?”

  “Of course, of course. Come in.” She hurriedly stepped aside, her brow creased with worry as they crossed the foyer. “It’s the off-season and Mardi Gras isn’t for a few weeks yet, so there are plenty of rooms.”

  The interior of the home was lavish and reeked of southern elegance. A staircase straight out of Gone with the Wind led to the upper floors, which was where she led them.

  “The top floor is empty and will give you the most privacy,” she said, taking them up another flight and showing them to a room at the end of the hall. After opening the door, she handed a key to Erik. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Do you have a medical kit?”

  She did and agreed to get it right away. Erik saw the questions in her eyes and the way she kept glancing at O’Connell, but he didn’t elaborate. While he felt bad for not giving Mrs. Cooper a fuller explanation, all his attention was focused on O’Connell.

  The room they were in was spacious, its decor understated elegance done in creams and ivories. A large tester bed took up a full corner, while a sitting area occupied the opposite corner, which also held a fireplace.

  He settled O’Connell on a loveseat in front of the fireplace, crouching down in front of her. “I need to get some things from the car,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Panic flared in her eyes, and she clutched at his arm. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No. It’s okay,” he assured her, gently removing her hand. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

  She still seemed unsure, but she didn’t try to stop him again.

  Erik hurried, grabbing their clothes and her laptop from the car. He was back in minutes after retrieving the med kit from Mrs. Cooper, who’d met him on his way up.