Prisoner Mine

by Megan Mitcham

  “And yet, you risked your life to save mine. You did the same for Derrick.”

  Her eyes clamped shut at the memory of his body at her feet—the body of someone she’d thought of as her friend. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “You still haven’t.”

  She looked at him, really took in his hard jaw and proud nose, his troubled eyes, and she slipped a little. The precipice was steep and threatened her life as truly as the Stas had, but the urge to throw herself over the side livened every cell inside her.

  “I would have.”

  “Good. When it’s you or someone else, always choose them.” He squeezed her hand.

  The hole in the side of Derrick’s skull haunted her again, but she pushed past it. “Did the Stas turn him?”

  “Did he work for them all along?” Z asked. “Or did he work for someone else? All questions we need to answer. I had my suspicions before…about both of you.”

  “What the hell?” Greer yanked her hand from his as though his touch burned.

  “When you were taken I thought I was wrong. I wasn’t wrong about Derrick.”

  “I can’t even…”

  The notion steamed its way down her esophagus and she nearly hacked it up, but what did it matter. His opinion of her didn’t matter, not even enough to finish the thought. She jerked the handle and shoved the door with everything she had. Good thing too. The bottom of the damn door ground against the metal frame, lamenting its order to open. Her sturdy backside helped in closing the thing. The sneakers Z had bought for her whined as she hurried by a parked Cadillac across the wet asphalt. When the hell had it rained?

  Z grabbed her left arm. She pulled it away.

  “You’re walking through urine.”

  Her shoes stalled in a shallow puddle. She whipped around and glared at him.

  “Hey.” He lowered his hands and spread them wide. “I didn’t do it, but I’m betting the guy taking a piss on the building did.”

  Sure enough a man in dirt-trimmed clothing aimed his sizable penis at a motel room door and created a pool at the threshold. Her cheeks heated. She’d seen more man parts in the last two days than she’d seen in her entire life. At the other end of the building a narrow breezeway sheltered a faded rucksack—digital woodlands print—the kind that never quite blended into the sands of Afghanistan—a dog, and a bag from the fast food chain a few blocks away. Tears stung her eyes without warning. She blinked them away. Looking at the puddle of piss she stood in helped. It and the one forming at the corner of the building were the only wet spots as far as the eye could see.

  “Let’s go.” Z reached for her arm again, but she side-stepped him.

  “You go. I’ll be there in a minute.” Greer rubbed her soles on the dry ground, and then headed for the large black dog.

  “What are you doing?” Massive pectorals and a frown blocked her path.

  “I’m going to talk to that gentleman.” She pointed to the still-peeing man. “When he gets finished.”

  “It’s just pee. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  Greer smiled. “Stay here or go to the room. You’ll make him nervous.”

  “You’re making me nervous.”

  “Good.” Before he could say more she hurried toward the breezeway.

  The pup stood. His head canted and one half-masted ear flipped up to a point.

  “Hey, sweet boy. What’s your name?”

  Intelligent eyes sparkled with curiosity.

  “I’m Greer.” She sat across from the pair’s territory, leaned her back against the wall, and stretched her legs out in front of her.

  Light glinted off the dog’s onyx nose as he sniffed the air.

  “Hey?” A deep, hollow voice barked.

  The man had zipped his jeans. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk. His dirty blond hair flopped back and forth as his head swiveled between her and Z, who leaned against the old truck with his arms crossed over his massive chest and a scowl on his sexy face. The gash on his forehead only added to his brutish appeal. Though, this guy probably didn’t think so. Her attention returned to the dog.

  “I take good care of him.”

  “I can see you do.” Greer gave a soft smile, careful not to sound condescending. She pointed to the nook across from her. “Please, I just want to talk for a minute.”

  He hiked a thumb over his shoulder. Shrapnel scars speckled his lean bicep. “Look, that asshole had it coming. He tried to strong arm Poppy into his Caddy after she told him she wasn’t open for business tonight.”

  “Poppy?”

  “She…uh…” He scrubbed a hand through his scruffy locks. “She works at the motel some nights.”

  “In an unofficial capacity?”

  “Don’t try and cause trouble. She’s just trying to get by.”

  “I’m not here to make trouble.”

  “Well, God hasn’t done much for me lately, lady. So, thanks for trying, but don’t waste your breath, trying to save my soul.” The man moved to the corner of the breezeway and leaned back, keeping Z in his line of sight. He gave a little nod and the dog rushed to his side. His gleaming black muzzle found the guy’s hand and they exchanged a familiar greeting.

  “He hasn’t done much for me lately either. So, don’t worry.” The man’s gaze narrowed, but she pushed forward before he could say anything. “My name is Greer. I’m a marine.”

  The man snorted. “They make ’em prettier than they did a few years ago.” His gaze found Z. “Then again, maybe not. He a marine?”

  “He’s a lot of things. How long have you been back home?”

  “Just ask what you want to know. How long have I been a bum? Why don’t I have a job? Where’s my family? Why don’t they help?”

  Greer offered her palm. “I don’t want to know your business. I just wanted to know if maybe we served at the same time, in the same hell hole. But it doesn’t matter.”

  His brow hiked at that. “Oh no? Look, I’m not into threesomes either. At least, not with another dude.”

  She laughed. It lifted the burden on her shoulders for the barest of seconds. Full breaths filled her lungs for the first time in too long. “I’m not here for that either. Look, I have a friend, a woman I served with. She’s trying to do something good. She’s trying to make a place for veterans.” His lips parted, but her quelling look stopped him. “It’s not an institution or anything like that. It’s a ranch. I think she’s calling it the Big Brass Ranch. I think you could help. I think it could help you.”

  Greer leaned forward, ripped a piece off the paper bag, and then stood. “Do you have a pen?”

  The guy let out a long, weighted breath. He looked at the dog, at her, and then at Z. After a string of seconds he leaned down, plucked a pencil from his bag, then handed it over.

  Grooves had been carved to make the fine point she used to scrawl a phone number onto the scrap. She extended it to the man. “Her name is Emerson. Tell her I sent you.”

  When he took the paper she skirted him and headed for the room number she’d seen on the key.

  “What’s the catch?”

  She stood only a few feet away from the ruggedly beautiful and empty man. “Don’t let me down.”

  “Letting people down is what I do.”

  “Not people. Only yourself. It’s what we all do.”

  “That’s some pep talk.” Lines formed a bracket around his shallow smile.

  “I’m not a cheerleader.”

  Greer dipped her head and walked away. Z met her at the door. His shoulders drooped as though the pride had been knocked from him. He stared at her shoes and started to look at the man in the breezeway, but his gaze didn’t quite make it. The key slid easily into the slot. He opened the door and waited. She thought to toe her shoes off before entering, then thought better of it. This wasn’t a Marriott. The place made a Motel 6 look like a Hyatt. But it was as off the grid as they could get tonight.

  Z’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but wo
rds didn’t follow. She halted on the threshold and met his eyes. Still his gaze dragged the floor. When she didn’t move ahead he grumbled. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Why’d I talk to that man?”

  “Yeah.” He may as well have been a kid hiding his hands and kicking the dirt. The mightiness of his height, girth, and brawn paled. Something small and vulnerable shuffled into its place.

  Emotion thickened her throat, but she swallowed. “Because I thought I could help.” She walked to the far bed and sat.

  He closed the door, locked it, and wedged a small black mechanism between the door and jam. After depressing a button on the flat surface a small red light illuminated the side facing the wall. She wondered if it was meant to keep her in, others out, or both. The luggage he carried in one hand plunked onto the other bed.

  “Look.” He propped both hands on his hips and rose to all his egomaniacal glory.

  “No, you look.” She flopped back onto the bed and stretched her arms out. “I’m still mad and I don’t want to talk about it. Go take a shower. You’re a bloody mess, and I don't mean that as a cute British colloquialism.”

  “So you think I’m cute?” One brow furled.

  “I think you’re an insensitive, distant ass covered in blood.” Only she didn’t believe it, not any more. Greer hid her eyes with the back of her arm. He’d begun showing her glimpses behind his wall that made her question the hard and fast opinion she’d formed about him so long ago. Seeing it whipped her up inside.

  She needed to lighten the mood. Her arm slipped off her forehead and she looked him up and down. Cracked, crusted blood stuck to the edges of his face and the sleeves and chest of his shirt. “What did the clerk think of you?”

  “I told her I was an MMA fighter. She said she’d be by at the end of her shift,” he deadpanned.

  “Of course she did.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you better go get a shower before she gets here.”

  Z sauntered to the bathroom door with his hands still on his hips. When he reached the partition his arms dropped and he met her gaze. “My life…hasn’t evoked confidence in others. My career reinforces mistrust.” His head bowed, but his gray eyes held. “I know I was wrong about you, Greer. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You trust me even though I haven’t done anything to earn it. You trust me even though your trust has been broken.”

  A tear slipped across Greer’s temple.

  “Thank you.”

  She couldn’t respond, couldn’t breathe. Her lungs ached. The lights above his head contorted. Z disappeared into the bathroom and the door closed with a quiet click. Damn him. Her heart pounded under her hand. She didn’t want to think about the past. She didn’t want to think about Derrick. She didn’t want to think about why she wanted to believe in Z, why she wanted to know him better, why she wanted to make him see how honorable, how worthy of trust he was.

  Greer jumped to her feet and used the hem of the large, grass stained, dirt smudged shirt to swipe at her tears. No way could she sleep. An old-school television sat on a short dresser that stretched from the doorway to the rod hanging on the wall meant to represent a closet. On the night stand the digital clock read 8:45 p.m. Neither looked particularly inviting. She was here for answers, right?

  Her feet carried her to the bags. The zipper screamed open. Guns, ammunition, wires, and C-4 peeked out. She shoved them aside and reached for the laptop. Since it hadn’t been facing the blast it had fared better than Z’s Barracuda, which they’d used to mount the bomb. How she’d ever thought him incapable of emotion she didn’t know.

  The laptop yawned and a white password screen popped up against the black backdrop. Of course. She typed pain in the royal ass and pressed enter. Shockingly it didn’t grant her access. The cream-colored bathroom door stared at her in challenge. Not to be outdone, she stalked to the thing, computer in hand, and flung it wide. She grabbed a handful of the thin shower curtain and pulled it to the side. Plastic rings scraped along a cracked plastic rod.

  Z’s knees bent and his back hunched in a desperate attempt to fit under the spray. Suds slid off the ridges and slopes of his glorious body. His head tilted. One eye surrounded by bubbles squinted open.

  “Do you want to earn my trust?” she yelled over the water.

  The bulge of his pecs expanded. Both hands ran through his dark hair, over his face, and around his neck. He rose to his full height and turned his back to the shower head. Water sluiced off his abdomen, the intricate dagger that stamped his left side, and down his full penis. Greer swallowed, and then licked her sensitive lips. His biceps bunched and he tugged on his nape. The striations in his forearms leaped. His jaw joined in. When his gaze slid to her it may as well have been a sonic blast. It chopped her brashness off at the knees, leaving her a bumbling fool.

  “Yes. In fact, in trying to earn it, there’s something I’ve kept myself from doing.” He stared at her mouth.

  Her lips swelled at his attention, both sets.

  “But you want my password?”

  She gripped the laptop so hard its metal edges bit into her fingers. “Yes.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t withdraw.

  His hands fell to his sides and he faced her. She glanced at his heavy length. No way to avoid it. Her fingers itched.

  “Is that all you want, Greer?”

  “No.” She surprised herself with the truth. She wanted him.

  His exhale edged with a groan. It filled the room, cocooning her in desire. “I guess one honest answer deserves another. Two-thousand, in numerals, and the shroud is my loyalty 2011. No spaces. No capitals.”

  The shroud is my loyalty?

  “Don’t try to figure it out. Just put it in the computer and close the door on your way out.”

  Lost for words, she nodded and backed out of the room, making certain the latch on the door caught. She plopped onto the bed, dazed and too aroused for anyone’s good. Greer put her fingers to work with the password. The thing took too damn long to cycle through the start-up. It gave her time to think.

  He’d given her quite the show. Her lady bits pulsed under the heat of the laptop and the mental picture of his abused, exquisite form.

  The screen brightened, ready to work. Greer crossed her ankles, but the move pressed her thighs together. She abandoned the proper gesture, afraid it would have her looking quite unladylike in a few minutes. A few clicks later she found the Stas system she’d been eyeballs deep into the previous day. This time she ignored the warehouse locations. Instead she searched the books for Derrick Coen. The list scrolled on forever, containing upward of five thousand names. Luckily, they’d been listed in alphabetical order.

  When the air shifted in the room she knew Z had opened the bathroom door with his usual stealth. His scent sneaked across the room. Her gaze locked on the column of last names, but the letters blended into alphabet soup. The thud of her pulse sped. Dewey moisture slicked her palms and her fingers slipped on the mouse pad. Why the hell did he have this effect on her?

  She clamped her eyes closed, breathed, and then opened them. Lust hadn’t made her see double. The names were coded in an indiscernible mix of letters and numbers. Her shoulders slumped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  There were so many ways to answer that. You’re emotionally unavailable. I like you and I shouldn’t. My hormones won’t listen to reason. We haven’t gotten any closer to finding out why we were taken. You almost died tonight and that scared me. It scares me more that I care so much. She settled for, “Stas records are coded and I don’t recognize a pattern.”

  “It’s another layer of protection. There’s a key and only the top guys have it.”

  “Could we trace them through the warehouse list?” She continued to scroll through the list, looking for anything familiar.

  “Doubtful. They don’t frequent these places. Can’t get their hands dirty.”

  Powerful thighs strode past the screen, slaughtering he
r concentration. “Could you put on some clothes?”

  Greer shouldn’t look, but not even self-preservation kept her gaze off the sturdy globes of his ass or the dimples above. Corded muscles wrapped either side of his spine in a stunning contour.

  Z leaned over the open bag and dug inside. Then she noticed he held a towel to the top of his head. Her irritation fled. Blood smeared his cheek and droplets dotted his chest. Dread tamped her arousal. She tossed the computer to the side and hurried to him.

  “Damn it.” Blood dripped off Z’s nose into the bag.

  “Sit.” Greer shoved him to the side and dug through the contents for the first aid kit.

  The bed groaned under Z’s weight.

  “I can’t believe you listened.”

  “Not easy to see through blood.”

  “You did it at the barn.” She ripped open the pack, found a roll of gauze and a stack of butterfly bandages.

  “Didn’t have a choice. Coen was taking you…where, I don’t know. My sensors didn’t register movement. On our way out I looked for rut marks off the main road to see where the shooters came in, but it was dark.”

  “And you were bleeding. Let me see.” Greer stepped between his legs, grabbed the towel, and held pressure on the wound. She caught a loose end and smoothed it over his eyelid with slow, gentle strokes. Red soaked the once-white point. Blood streaked his skin, but it would do for now. “How’s that? Can you see now?”

  Long lashes lifted and closed a couple of times before opening wide. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. His gaze zeroed in on her breast scant inches from his mouth. “Yes, I can.”

  A blast of heat worked its way up the curve of her back. She firmed her mouth and pushed the desire away. If only Z would do the same.

  “Zach never suited you.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head, reached for the roll of gauze, and then handed it to Z. “Roll about half of that off for me and rip it.”

  “You’re bossy tonight. ‘Stay here. Do this.’”

  “In my head I call you Z.”

  The white roll fell to the bed and unraveled to the approximate spot she needed.