Beyond Solitude

by Kit Rocha

The door swung lazily back into place after she vanished, and Mia snuck a peek at Ford, surprised his habitual frown hadn’t reappeared. Not that he was smiling or anything—God forbid—but he seemed mellow, even in the face of Noelle’s affectionate teasing.

  Interesting. “So I’m starting to think cheating at arguments is an O’Kane thing.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “That’s the thing about being in a position of power, buttercup. You don’t have to fight if you don’t want to.”

  “But she wasn’t even fighting with you.”

  “Should she?”

  Unless she didn’t have any power at all—or had just as much as he did. Hard to fathom a place where women shared the same easy authority as men, but Noelle and Trix had both had the same ink around their wrists as Lex and Ford. “Does she have power?”

  “What are you really asking?” Ford reached over the bar, but instead of liquor he picked up a bottle of water. “Noelle is a member. She wears the ink, same as me. Same as anyone else.”

  “Oh.” Only a man could say that as if it should have been obvious, as if it wasn’t close to incomprehensible.

  Then, just when she thought he really didn’t understand how insane all this was, he glanced over at her. “You’ll get used to it.”

  God, she hoped so.

  Off balance and desperate to cover it, she rose on her elbows and peered over the bar, taking in the endless row of bottles with their artistic labels. “So this is the stuff you sell here?”

  He inclined his head in a nod. “The finest liquor there is.”

  It couldn’t all be fine. As meager as her apartment was, she was doing damn well compared to some of the people around her. Five or ten people often crowded into rooms the size of hers, and if they could afford O’Kane liquor, then some of it had to be dirt cheap.

  She picked up the nearest bottle and examined the label. It looked hand drawn, with the O’Kane emblem front and center and intricate lettering beneath declaring it a Broken Circle Exclusive. Not time-consuming to produce, if you had a chemical-reaction printer that could mass reproduce a drawing on paper. And the bottles could be recycled, if you could get people to bring them back. “Are the margins good?”

  “On the moonshine and rotgut? Outstanding. Narrows a bit, the higher up the chain you go.”

  Tucking that bit of knowledge away, she returned the bottle and picked up another. “Which one’s your favorite?”

  “The O’Kane specialty—the whiskey.”

  She had to shuffle through a few more bottles to find it. “Is this what you were drinking the other night?”

  He grunted in confirmation. “Want to try it?”

  There was something teasing under the words, maybe even a challenge. It was damned uncivilized to start drinking the hard stuff before ten in the morning, but wasn’t that the point of Sector Four? Vaughn’s obsession with civilized behavior had given her no reason to cling to the concept.

  A row of clean shot glasses lined the bar, ready for use. She plucked up one and grinned at him. “You think I won’t?”

  “I think you can’t handle it.”

  Her pride prickled. “How many?”

  Ford laughed. “How many what? Shots? Or seconds before you get all woozy and hit the floor?”

  “Bet me.” She set down the glass and opened the bottle. “How many do I have to do to win?”

  He rolled his eyes and blew out a breath, still chuckling. “I don’t know, three. Yeah, sure. Three shots.”

  Three shots might set her to wobbling, but better to find out now, when she still had time to sober up before her walk home. “What do you want if you win?”

  Ford braced a hand on the bar. The muscles in his arm and shoulder flexed as he pushed himself up, leaned over the bar, and snagged another shot glass. “What’ll you give me?”

  They both knew the only thing of value she had to offer was her body and the use of it, but not even his gorgeous, perfectly formed muscles would make her wager that. If she ever put her hands on Derek Ford, she wanted them both to know she was making a choice, not fulfilling an obligation.

  So something else. Something that would make him smile. “Less backtalk. Or, you know, if you’d miss it...more backtalk.”

  He seemed to consider that. “A raise,” he said finally. “So you can find a better place to live.”

  Her heart kicked again, harder this time. It made her chest squeeze so tight she couldn’t draw a full breath. “That’s what you want if you win?”

  “Sure.” He splashed whiskey into both glasses.

  She could ask why he cared, but she already suspected the answer. I don’t, he’d say, with some touch or smile that would flip her stomach inside out and make her wish she was just another girl, a normal one. Someone with innocence or experience, but not this painful, unnatural mixture of both.

  “I know what I want if I win,” she heard herself say, and the words that would have been so innocent a few moments ago felt suddenly suggestive—because they were. “A long, hot bath.”

  “Deal.” He knocked back one shot and pushed the other over to her.

  Remembering her ungraceful sputtering the first night, Mia braced herself. That had been only a tiny sip. This was more, burning down her throat like liquid flame. Heat bloomed in her chest and spiraled wider. Her cheeks grew warm. Her nipples felt tight, sensitive, though maybe that came from watching Ford.

  His gaze flickered down to her chest. He turned away immediately to pour two more shots, but not before she saw the flash of fire in his eyes. “Drink up, buttercup.”

  She was going to lose. She could feel it already in the fuzzy anticipation as she lifted the second shot, in the way it didn’t burn nearly as much on its way down. She was going to lose, and she should be ecstatic at the idea of higher pay and a new place to live.

  Too bad she was stuck on the fantasy of sliding into a hot bath with him.

  Chapter Five

  Little Miss Mia couldn’t hold her liquor.

  Ford laid a hand at the small of her back and winced as she swayed dangerously on the stairs. For a while, he’d thought he might have to carry her, and he’d been relieved when she managed to walk on her own. That relief would be shot to hell if she fell—and took him with her.

  She straightened, and he breathed a sigh. “Steady, buttercup. You’re almost there.”

  “I made a mistake.” She gripped the railing and navigated the next steps with precise concentration. “I looked down. You can never look down. Or back.”

  “Words of wisdom.” He had to slide his arm around her waist and urge her forward. “That’s it. Nice and easy.”

  She shivered against him. “It was only three shots. Why am I this warm?”

  “Because alcohol makes your capillaries swell—” Good, maybe if he talked about blood vessels, it would distract him from the definite and inconvenient swelling going on below his belt. “It flushes your skin. Makes it heat up.”

  Only three more steps, but she managed to rub the sweet curves of her ass against him on every damn one of them. “You should have given me whiskey instead of a heater.”

  He gritted his teeth. “The warming effect is temporary. When it wears off, you’ll be colder than ever.” Cold, and passed out in his office.

  Or his bed.

  Ford shoved the thought away and led her to the couch along the wall adjacent to his desk. “Time to sleep it off, Mia.”

  “But it’s not even lunchtime.” She tumbled to the cushions, adorably disheveled, and stared up at him. “I can’t sleep if you’re going to give me a raise. I need to do something brilliant.”

  “You’re welcome to get up and try, but I think you’re better off staying put.”

  “Do you always get your way?”

  A simple question, not a challenge. “Usually. I’ve learned to pick my battles, buttercup. I fight the ones I can win.”

  “That’s smart.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “I didn’t have a choice. I di
dn’t think I’d win, but I had to fight.”

  A lock of hair fell across her face, and Ford brushed it away. “Shows what you know, then. You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “I’m here.” She turned into his touch, chasing it with her cheek. “I’m not miserable, you know. I don’t care if I live in a closet with no hot water and no lights. I don’t care if you growl and snarl and snap at me. It’s magic. All of it’s magic, because I’m here.”

  She really was beautiful—full lips, big eyes, and delicate bones under smooth, dark skin. And he’d been treating her like shit, taking out his frustrations and thwarted desires on her.

  It would serve him right if she slapped him instead of looking up at him with dreams in her eyes.

  But she didn’t. She slid her fingers up his arm, tracing his muscles with a featherlight touch. “I don’t know how to flirt when it’s real. I don’t know how to want. Wanting was never my role.”

  Goose bumps rose on his skin. “You don’t want to flirt with me, Mia.”

  “Because you don’t want a whore?”

  She sounded so sad, resigned. “Because you don’t want me,” he corrected gently. “Old and busted, that’s what I am.”

  “So? I’m young and busted. I was cynical about sex before anyone ever touched me.” Her fingernails dug into his skin suddenly, her grip fierce. “And then no one ever did, because I was already dirty. He should have gotten a damn Rose. At least she would have known how to pretend.”

  Her patron. Ford knew jack shit about the man, and he hated him. “Go to sleep, sweetheart, before the room starts spinning and you get sick.”

  She clung to him a moment longer before her hand slipped away. “I should have bet a kiss, win or lose. That would have been clever. I’m supposed to be clever.”

  His jeans pinched as he rose, and Ford tried to hide his wince. By the time he took a step back, her eyes had drifted shut.

  By the time he reached his desk, she was snoring softly, the way only a person who was passed-out drunk could.

  Later, he would have to talk to her. He would have to hear what she had been trying to say and respond like a functional human being. But for now…

  All he wanted to do was hide.

  Mia had a brand-new jacket, a full stomach, and a fuzzy ache in her skull that meant she needed to stay the hell away from O’Kane liquor.

  Especially since fuzzy heads talked too damn much.

  Little wonder Ford had opted out of taking her shopping himself. After she’d slept off the worst of the booze, he’d shoved her out of his office with Trix as fast as he could, shutting the door behind her with a haste that felt like its own statement.

  At least roaming the market with Trix had been educational. She’d worked for the O’Kanes for years before becoming a member, which meant she knew the sector. Not just the places where Ford could stride, cockily unaware of how his dick kept him as safe as his ink, but the best ways to get by when you had neither.

  She’d even helped Mia find a new apartment only three blocks away from the O’Kane compound. One glance at Trix’s wrists, and the landlord had “remembered” a room opening up at the end of the week, and for only a little more than Mia was paying now.

  Ink talked in Sector Four. O’Kane ink screamed.

  Knowing she’d be gone soon made it easy to shrug off the darkness in the stairwell of her own dingy apartment building. Mia dug into her pocket for her key as she reached the second floor, but paused on the landing. Mrs. Jones’s door was ajar, but no light spilled out of it. Footsteps scuffled just inside, and worry cinched tight in Mia’s chest. The woman was mean as hell, but she was also old. It wouldn’t take much of a fall to crack frail bones and leave her helpless.

  Fisting a hand around her keys, Mia took a careful step forward. “Mrs. Jones?”

  The door swung open, and she found herself with the cold barrel of a pistol pressed against her forehead. “You’re nosy. Know what happens to nosy bitches?”

  She’d known fear, but the unforgiving metal digging into her skin was a threat so unfamiliar she could only feel foolish in those first seconds. The terror she’d felt in Sector Two had been pale compared to this. A patron might be cruel to a girl. He might force himself on her, knowing no one would consider it rape when he’d paid for the privilege. Every day in Sector Two presented a thousand possible reasons to die on the inside.

  But no one would have killed her. No one would have dared.

  She tried to move her numb lips, tried to say anything, but a gloved hand came out of the darkness, closing around the wrist of the man holding the gun. “Not her. She was rolling with O’Kane’s redhead earlier.”

  The thug hesitated, bared his teeth. “You sure?”

  “Saw them in the market. Lay off, man.”

  After an interminable moment, the pistol clicked, and the man backed away. “Looks like your lucky day, sweet cheeks.”

  She didn’t move. The man brushed by, jostling her with his shoulder. More followed, streaming past her in silence, some carrying bulky bags heavy with looted goods.

  One crossed into the fading light from the window, and his features were familiar. She’d seen him in the market earlier, traveling with a half-dozen friends, only memorable because they’d been swaggering, tossing glares left and right and laughing as people scurried out of their way.

  Until they saw Trix.

  Trix hadn’t swaggered. She’d barely acknowledged their presence, but that had been enough to deflate their bravado.

  Apparently it was also enough to keep Mia alive.

  One of the men laughed as they tramped down the stairs, leaving Mia counting their steps while her pulse throbbed in her ears. The slamming of the front door cracked through the night, but the sound broke her from frozen terror.

  Shaking, she rushed for Mrs. Jones’s open door. It was dark inside, the usual hum of the generator silenced, but the old woman was sprawled in the dim light near one of the windows. Limp. Motionless.

  Then she groaned, and Mia almost tripped over herself rushing across the intervening space. “Mrs. Jones?”

  The woman heaved a shuddering breath that turned into a cough, and blood splattered her already stained white shirt. “Go,” she wheezed. “Run—”

  “They’re gone,” Mia promised, tugging at the blood-soaked flannel shirt beneath her hands. Buttons pinged in all directions as she gave up and tore, but there wasn’t enough light to see the wound, and there was so much blood. Warm, wet, and still pumping sluggishly from someplace beneath Mia’s fingers.

  “You’ll be okay.” They both knew it was a lie, but what else could she say? The only real comfort she could offer was the promise of vengeance—but maybe that worked in Sector Four. She found one of the old lady’s hands and curled her own around it. “We’ll find them. My boss will find them.”

  But she said nothing. No last words of hope, farewell, or even anger. She just went limp, her half-closed eyes devoid of life.

  A loud bang echoed from down the hall, and Mia started, letting Mrs. Jones’s hand slip from hers. She staggered to her feet and inched toward the door, and it was like walking through a dream. Nothing felt real. She pressed a hand to the doorframe to steady herself, but the bloody hand clutching at the faded wood was unfamiliar. Chipped nails, ragged cuticles, skin roughened and dry from cheap soap and a lack of the lotions and creams she’d never noticed until they were gone. It didn’t look like the hand she’d had for most of her life, and she couldn’t feel the wall beneath it.

  She couldn’t feel anything.

  But she remembered this sensation. Cloudy, fuzzy, barely feeling the ground beneath her shoes, unable to hear anything past her pulse throbbing in her ears. She’d walked out of Vaughn’s house like this, certain she’d be caught, dragged low, punished for thinking she deserved more, deserved better—

  God, she had to get out of here. Get out and never come back, which meant finding the courage to move. She’d sleep under the bar if she had to, or pl
ead with Ford to let her spend a few nights on the couch. He cared, under that grumpy façade. He didn’t want to, but she didn’t care. Pity was better than dying in a gutter.

  She lifted her free hand to her throat. Her jacket was in the way, but she didn’t have to tug down her zipper to know her locket wasn’t there. She always left it behind, tucked away with her meager savings, afraid to wear something shiny and silver that might catch the attention of a desperate thief.

  The money would be hard to pay back, but the locket—if they’d taken her locket—

  Breathe. The scent of blood turned her stomach, but deep breaths got her out into the hallway. She scurried to her door, hope withering when she saw it standing open, splintered where the lock should have been.

  Inside was chaos. Her table was shattered. Someone had taken a knife to her thin mattress, ripping it apart to look for valuables. The space heater Ford had sent her was gone, along with her solar recharger and lamp.

  Her box lay on its side a few feet into the room, the lid torn away. Empty.

  Wet warmth ran down her cheek. A tear, which she swiped away with a shaking hand. Nothing left was worth taking with her. Nothing left was worth saving—except for her life. And if she wanted to keep that, she didn’t have time for tears.

  So for the second time in a month, she choked them back, choked back terror, and put one foot in front of the other.

  As long as she was breathing, that was all she could do.

  Ford worked until his eyes were gritty, burning.

  At first, he settled in with his charts and spreadsheets as a way to distract himself from thoughts of Mia. She was strong, he’d give her that. Stronger than he’d expected. Every time he threw a challenge her way, she met it not only with defiance but competence.

  Well, except for the liquor, but he could hardly blame her for that.

  The distraction served its purpose, keeping him occupied long enough for his attention to morph into something else—the sincere and utter absorption in his work. This was where he belonged, building the O’Kanes’ business, one deal at a time. Other men pounded the streets, keeping order and helping Dallas rule over the immediate, mundane concerns of a king.