Still Not Into You: An Enemies to Lovers Romance
Page 10
I don’t know how this man hasn’t ended up in jail yet.
I still haven’t acknowledged him.
As far as anyone knows, we’re strangers, and I’m minding my own sweet business while this asshole stares at me. He’s got a duffel, and he keeps it protectively in his lap, as if that’s not obvious as hell. He finally looks away when the bartender comes back with a foaming mug and slings it in front of him. The bartender hovers, clearly waiting for Harmon to pay, but he just takes a big, sloppy sip, burps, and then stares at me pointedly.
I take my time closing my book and slipping it away into my back pocket, then lifting my head and catching the bartender’s eye with an easy smile. “His tab’s on me,” I say, and Harmon grins.
“Damn right it is.”
Sweet Jesus, his breath is foul.
I ignore it as I turn to face him. He can be as suspicious-looking as he wants, but me, I gotta keep things cool. Keep control of the situation.
I still can’t be sure he hasn’t sussed me out and figured out this is a setup. Can't let my guard down. This devil might have some of his guys from his rumored drug mills waiting outside to jump me.
I beam a tense glance over him, looking for tell-tale signs of a weapon. A rumple in his clothing, or a certain way of leaning that says he’s aware of the weight of a gun and self-conscious about it.
Nothing.
He really showed up unarmed.
I lean one elbow on the bar, watching as he slurps down the rest of his beer and signals for another. “You’re looking mighty satisfied with yourself,” I say.
“Should be,” he slurs back. “I got my hands on every penny. You gonna pony up?”
“Once I confirm the cash, sure.”
“You got the goods, I got the money. It’s all yours, bub, if you’re as good as you say you are.”
I shrug one shoulder. I don’t need to brag, whether this is a setup or not.
Boasting never sounds believable.
Best bet in situations like this is to just stay quiet and let people fill in their own blanks. Makes it easier to lead them.
I take a pretend sip of my own beer, letting it kiss my lips, but nothing more.
“You must be in a pretty rough situation to end up on my doorstep,” I probe him, keeping my voice low. “People don’t call me to fix their lives till they’ve burned every other bridge.”
“Fuck, you think I’d be crawling after you if I had a choice?” he sneers. “Everybody I thought I could trust took off like cockroaches when you flick the light on. Talking about coming back when I get clear of all my ‘unique troubles.’ That's what they call it.” He lets out a snorting, barking laugh. “‘Unique troubles.’ For once, I ain’t even fucking done nothing.”
“But you’re running anyway?”
“Nobody will fucking believe me, man. I got no choice but to start over. What else?” He shoots me a slit-eyed, angry look, then leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. “People think I’m involved in a missing person's case. Everybody’s on the hunt for me, and I got no alibi. Innocent as shit, and the whole world's chomping ready to hang me by my balls. Even got this goddamn biker gang after me. Motorcycle thugs up my ass after my ex’s bitch sister came sniffing after me and chased me out of all my usual places.”
I nod. I know exactly what he means. The Grizzlies MC, one of the big West Coast clubs based in California, has been looking. Somebody tipped them off. Somebody with connections to their old Prez, Blackjack, whose name is damn near legend in the local press, and a dozen wild books about outlaws, too.
I should know because it's my favorite kind of book to read. True crime. The reality blended with the tall tales about men who walk the shadows in life, and deal with what they're handed, good or bad.
Harmon's jittery, and when his second beer comes, he tosses it down in a single nervous gulp, throat bulging like a bullfrog. The speech sounds too rehearsed.
Like he’s been practicing it in a mirror, ready to deny anything.
He’s not a good liar. See, good liars can make themselves believe the lie is the truth, and they can pass a polygraph with the faith of their conviction. That’s how they make you believe it, too.
I wouldn’t believe Harmon if he told me the sky was blue.
I gotta keep being careful. Can’t let it slip I know a damn thing about him. Or that I want to collapse his chicken-neck windpipe for calling Sky a bitch.
I take my time lingering over another fake sip of my beer before I ask matter-of-factly, “What size job we talking?”
“What do you mean, what size? What the hell does size got to do with it? You charge by height?”
I sigh deeply. “Size. As in...the number of people we're relocating. Logistics are different for one man, for a couple, for a family. You taking anyone with you? Friends, girlfriend, brother, parent, kid?”
He stiffens, watching me suspiciously, then looks away, glaring across the bar with his eyes narrowed. “Nah,” he mutters gruffly. “Not anymore. Me, myself, and I.”
A chill pours down my spine. My stomach turns.
Not anymore.
Fuck, is that what he means?
If that little girl is already dead, I'll slaughter him. They ain’t never gonna find the pieces of Harmon Ketchum's body. I’m not sure I’ll even leave enough for Sky to get her claws into.
I feel a growl trying to lunge up the back of my throat and force it down again.
Stay calm. Neutral. Act natural.
Like I don’t know shit. But I gotta get this show on the road. The longer we dally, the shorter my window to get him alone and drag him off without being seen.
He’s calling for the bartender again, and whiskey this time. The tumbler’s barely in front of him for half a second before it’s down his gullet. He’s not even giving me half a second to slip a roofie in. I’m either gonna have to do this the risky way, or do it the hard way.
I ain’t gonna lie.
Some part of me is hoping for the hard way.
I need to sink a fist clean into this mother fucker’s face.
“C’mon,” I say, sliding off my seat before he can order another drink. “We've got a long drive ahead, and cops like to set DUI traps along I-80 at this time of year.”
He blinks at me, before comprehension settles in that blank, glinting gaze. I-80’s the road to Redding, where Harmon thinks he’s getting a fresh start at life with a new ID, social, bank account, everything.
Game plan – or so he thinks – is that I’m gonna resettle him there for about six months. Long enough to test out and settle into his new identity, before shipping him over the border to Canada and Vancouver.
He has no idea he’s never gonna make it out of San Francisco.
I jerk my head toward the door. He slides his thick frame off the barstool, tucks the duffel bag under his arm, and follows me. The fresh night air is a relief after the close, stifling air of the bar and the stench of Harmon crowded close to me, but it’s short-lived relief as I let him into the cab of my truck and then climb into the driver’s seat, shut myself up in the cramped space with him.
As I’m rolling the windows down, though, he gives me a sharp look.
“Guns,” he says. “Now. I just wanna be sure you’re good for it.” He thunks the duffel bag down between us and unzips it. Bound stacks of bills peek out, all jumbled up. “That’s half what I owe you. Other half once we’re settled.”
I sigh and don’t even pause in shifting the truck into reverse and backing out of the parking spot. My exasperation isn’t wholly feigned. This man’s about as subtle as a brickbat to the face.
“You think I stayed in business this long by riding around with illegal weapons just sitting in my car?” I ask. “One traffic stop and suddenly I’m looking at ten to life. You gotta play this careful. You need to learn that before I turn you loose, or a new ID won't even save you.”
He looks disgruntled, but considers before asking, “So where are the guns?”
“Huh. All right.”
He doesn’t sound like he quite buys it, but he’s not pushing me, either. I can feel him watching me, but I keep my eyes on the road. Deep down, I’m worried, but I can’t act like it.
This is the moment when I’m most vulnerable.
If he pulls something while I’m driving he could wreck us both. I can’t trust him to just go along, docile and defeated, especially if he’s suspicious of my motives.
But I didn’t need to worry. It's less than a minute before he’s asleep.
Asleep.
How the fuck can this asshole sleep with all the shit on his conscience?
Whatever. Why complain?
It makes my job easier, even if his snoring smells as foul as the rest of him. I keep on the highway for a little longer, just in case he jolts awake and notices we’re not where I said we were going.
There’s a spot a good half hour down the road that I scoped out last night, where there’s a nice little stand of brush that’s impenetrable from the road, and a good little outcropping of rock to hide my truck behind. Looks like an old farm feeder road that doesn’t lead anywhere anymore, left to go fallow, leading past, almost into a field gone to scrub.
I count the miles and the exit markers, then spot the little break in the guard rail and the overgrown bit of asphalt peeking out from under years of dirt.
Carefully, I merge lanes and then ease off the gas, keeping it slow so the jouncing doesn’t wake Harmon. He lolls in the passenger seat, but doesn’t stir. That whiskey must have hit him hard.
Still, I don’t take my eyes off him for even a nanosecond, as I ease down the service road and then off the beaten path to pull in around that rocky spot.
No cars on the road, either. Good.
Nobody to tell the cops later that they saw a big, beat-up, red Dodge pulling off onto a dead farm road at just the time of night Harmon Ketchum was said to have disappeared.
It scares me a little, thinking about killing him right here, right now.
Ending this. But only after I've ripped the truth about Joannie out of him.
That ain’t who I am anymore.
Is it?
I’m seriously wondering, as I park the truck and then slip the syringe from my pocket, watching Harmon closely. He’s not moving.
Perfect.
I uncap the syringe and close in.
Maybe not for the kill. Not yet. But I’m not making any promises I can't keep.
Not till I find out if little Joannie's okay, and if this piece of shit scum deserves to live.
9
Don't Let Me Down (Skylar)
I’ve never been so close to quitting my job.
My nerves are a wreck. I shouldn’t be here, playing at being a security pro.
Not when what I really am is a frightened, tense, angry woman filled with vengeance and retribution and resolution hovering just out of reach.
I haven’t heard from Gabe since last night. Not after lying awake forever, tossing and turning ever since I heard his Dodge quietly pull out of my drive after a few hours’ watch, wondering if he was cornering Harmon.
I wondered, I waited, I ached, even while I stared at my ceiling and counted the specks in the stucco.
I'm still wondering now, instead of doing my job properly. When it hits me, I'm so amped up I could slap myself silly. Focus.
Right. The Duke.
I need to focus on the damn Duke.
I’m ferrying a group of local officials through. I almost let them go without even patting them down. That won me a hefty dose of eye-shade from the Duke’s personal bodyguards.
Not to mention Riker gently clearing his throat. I'm ashamed to say it's the only reason I notice what I'm forgetting, and how unforgivable it is.
It's embarrassing as hell to have to call the big wigs back and endure their irritation and impatience while I give them a once-over. Landon watches the whole time, and it isn't hard to tell what he's thinking. It's in the wry, concerned frown on his lips.
I can practically read his mind.
This isn’t like her. This isn't Skylar. She's always at the top of her game.
Today, though, it’s nothing but swings and misses.
I just want to leave, but I promised Gabe.
I promised, dammit.
I promised I’d do my job, sit back, and let him handle everything.
For him.
What did he even mean by that line? And that firestorm kiss?
How much more can I realistically take, just paralyzed and questioning everything?
Very freaking little, I'm afraid.
I can’t take this stress, this confusion, this everything in me knotted up in a tangled mess of Joannie and Gabe and Harmon. Fear and fury. Fate in motion, invisible and awful and mysterious.
I’m spinning but hyper-focused. Ironic. It’s a weird mix of alertness and scattered inconsistency like nothing I’ve known since the old days, huddled in a cramped spy sub, tracking patterns in Chinese fleet movements near some disputed islands.
And I’m about to scream right now, standing on the sidelines, watching the crowd for any suspicious movements. Meanwhile, the Duke drones on through his speech. Every mention of King Silas, Queen Erin, and the royal kiddo gets a rousing applause, more than the Duke himself.
He’s halfway through, and I think I’ve snuck a check at my phone at least a dozen times. Technically it’s against protocol, but these are special circumstances.
But it’s radio silence from Gabe.
God, this is giving me flashbacks – and I don’t like it one bit.
I’m suddenly thinking of Richard. I haven’t thought of Richard in so many years that his name is this kind of blank that even as I focus on it, my brain tries to white it out.
PTSD will do that to you. I’d tried to forget Richard even existed, but suddenly I’m back there.
* * *
Five Years Ago
It’s always dark inside a submarine. Always.
The light is the color of the alert lights, red or green or blue, or it’s the strange dark shadowed glow of the deep sea.
If you’re lucky, a few stray bits of sunlight will filter down from above and catch on something outside the circular ports set in the side of the slow-moving leviathan that's now your home.
Sometimes I’m down there so long, I don’t remember what normal colors look like. Not when we’re all painted in variants of a single numbing shade.
It’s red now.
The red of alarm.
The red of panic.
The red of blood.
I scream into my headset, tracking movements on radar. I shouldn’t have let him go.
Richard was my friend, one of the first friends I made in the military, even though I was Intelligence and he was a SEAL. We were parts of a functioning machine, and we had each other’s backs.
He always called me his eyes underwater, said I was the only reason he’d ever make it back.
He promised me every single time he'd come back, and so far, he’s made good on it. Even against the odds.
Only, I didn’t tell him I had a bad feeling about this mission.
It’s a dive infiltration, to retrieve wreckage of a top-secret experimental U.S. spy plane that most of the brass didn’t even know about. It was shot down over Chinese waters, and our government wants the pieces back if only so the proprietary tech doesn’t fall into the wrong hands and ends up used against us.
We’ve got a support ship up topside, but down here it’s submarine lights and mechanical robotic arms picking through wreckage, while SEAL divers plunge low and deep, seeking the crucial data recorders.
We think we’ve been smart. We think we’ve been subtle.
It’s a big ocean, after all. And when it can take years to even locate
a single piece of wreckage from a missing plane, we’re counting on the Chinese not being able to find us.
But there’s a blip moving in fast.
We’ve got chatter from above.
There are jets, but it’s not the jets I’m afraid of, it’s the arrowing screaming motion patterns that shriek of a torpedo. I’m shouting at my captain, screaming not to pull away, because we’re the only refuge those divers have.
He can't leave them behind. He can't.
But the captain makes a choice.
Objectively, I know it's the right one, but in my heart I can’t stand it and I can’t forgive it.
He pulls us out on an escape route, and the last thing I see of Richard is a cloud of billowing bubbles and fire burning underwater as I fling myself, sobbing, against the port window. I stare outside while the impact site retreats farther and farther into the deep-water distance.
For one small moment, I hope he survived. For one breath, I convince myself he’s coming back.
But I know he’s not. I know he isn’t.
Because people who promise me they’ll come back never do.
Because everyone always leaves me, one way or another.
* * *
Present Day
Only now, in my mind’s eye, it’s not Richard.
It’s Gabe. It’s Gabe dead and torn to pieces because I ignored the horrible feeling in my gut and didn’t say anything.
It’s Gabe out of reach, while life keeps me from saving him, from doing something, anything.
I could call him. I should call him, but what if I interrupt at the wrong moment? What if –
“Pixie!” Landon materializes at my side, looking down at me with his eyes dark with concern.
Crap. I stiffen my spine, snapping to attention.
“Boss?”
“Don’t ‘boss’ me,” he says with a touch of gentle exasperation. “Leave.”
Panic tightens in my chest. Am I messing up that bad?
“What? No, I’ve got this, sir, I just –”
“You're a wreck, Sky. It’s not hard to tell something’s going on.” He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “You’re relieved of duty. Get going. This time, it’s okay. It’s obvious you need to be somewhere else. If it’s something about Joannie, go take care of it, dammit. There’s no good reason for you to be here when you're not doing me or yourself any good.”