Savior (The Kingwood Duet Book 2)

by S. L. Scott

  A crib?

  Fuck.

  I take three silent steps and look down into the crib. A baby. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My shoulders lower as the gun does. Catching a glimpse of Cruise, he shakes his head no. He’s right. I should walk away. But when I return to the bed, my fury returns. One shot is all it will take to take Connor Johnson out for good.

  Raising my gun up again, I point it at him, right between the eyes. His wife stirs, rolling over toward him. Her arm stretches toward him and her hand rests on his stomach. I don’t have a silencer, so she’ll definitely hear the gunshot. Her scream will last longer than it takes for us to climb out the window and drive away. It will be loud enough to wake the neighbors or sound the alarm company.

  Looking back at Jason, his face is calm, his gun out, aimed at our target. The baby sucks a pacifier, the sound so innocent. Our facts were wrong. He has a baby. Does that baby deserve to have a dad, even a shitty dad in his life? Did I? Would I have been better off without my dad? Probably.

  When I look at his wife again, I start to wonder how she’ll survive on her own raising these kids. Fuck.

  The gun is lowered, the conscience I thought I was lacking returns. It was easy to take O’Hare out. I could see the evil he committed. I thought I could do this. Glancing to his wife again, I realize I should have taken the time to clear my head and get the facts right.

  If I pull the trigger, what kind of man does this make me? It puts me one step closer to my predecessor. Sara Jane deserves better.

  Nodding toward the window, I call it off. We’re leaving; Connor Johnson will live another day. No promises after that. Cruise climbs out and takes off toward the car as I climb out. Just when my feet hit the grass, one singular shot sounds.

  Jason flies out the window and barrel-rolls before jumping to his feet. Mrs. Johnson is screaming, and suddenly I find myself legging it to the car. We practically dive into the car, and Cruise takes off. The door is closed and chaos breaks loose with everyone yelling at once.

  “What the fuck did you do?” I ask.

  Jason leans back in the backseat and looks out the window. “I did what you should have.”

  Turning to the side, I say, “I changed my mind.”

  “No, you hesitated. There’s a difference.”

  “Fuck you.”

  His hands are up, a smile on his face. “Fine. Fuck me.”

  Him laughing about this is bullshit. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “I know who I’m not,” he says way too fucking calmly, considering he just killed a man. “That’s enough.”

  “Who aren’t you?”

  “I’m not some rich kid playing the villain for attention from his dead daddy.”

  He’s wise not to mention my mother. “Fu—”

  “Fuck me. Yeah. Yeah. I get it.” He’s the type of guy that sits in judgment of all others on his high and fucking mighty horse. There’s no point in arguing with someone who never intends to listen.

  Cruise pulls over in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour laundromat, and gets out. Mumbling about Connor and us shooting him, his hands are pulling at his hair while he starts frantically pacing. But my attention is stuck on the asshole in the backseat. “What gives?”

  “Gives? Nothing. Nothing ever came without a price, so I take.” He glances out the back window as Cruise passes. “I did what had to be done, what you couldn’t.” Sitting forward, he lowers his voice, and says, “It’s not about forcing people to call you a name you haven’t earned. It’s about acting the role so they do it automatically.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “My problem?” He laughs while leaning back again. “Where do we begin, Doctor?”

  I glance to Cruise. The reality of what’s happened to us and the role I play sinks in; it’s on me. Not Jason. His eyes aren’t wild. His body’s relaxed. A life is gone, one he took without a second thought, and he’s in the backseat like we’re out to raise a little hell on a Friday night. I’m not sure what league I was playing in before, but I’m in the majors now. To think I left the one person I love most in his hands, trusting him to protect her . . . who is this insane bastard I entrusted with Sara Jane’s life, which he didn’t protect in the end. “Why’d you kill him?”

  “Because that fucker back there killed one of your closest friends and tried to kill Al—Sara Jane. He tried once and failed, but he’d make sure to get it done the second time. So I took care of business.”

  Turning around, I know he’s right. Johnson tried and failed. He and O’Hare were trying to blackmail me, and when I didn’t bother sending their offshore payments, they thought they’d send me a message. Chad and Sara Jane paid that price. I know this. I do. I just wonder where that line that I used to stare at is. Where has the line I dared myself to cross disappeared to?

  Shifting my arm, I look back once more, and ask, “What’s in this for you?”

  “I’m doing the job I was hired to do.”

  “I hired you for a job back wherever the fuck we found you. So I’ll ask again. What’s. In. This. For. You?”

  Our eyes lock, neither of us moving.

  Cruise gets back in the car, slamming the door closed. “I can’t believe you killed him.” His voice is too high. My gaze deviates to Cruise. Panic is written all over his face. Shock is setting in. Reaching over, I squeeze his shoulder. “It will be okay. You will be okay.”

  “What the fuck just happened?”

  “Would you have felt better if it were me who shot him? That was the plan. That was why we went there.”

  His hands are shaking almost as much as his head. “You wouldn’t have shot him. I know you wouldn’t. Not like that. Not with his wife right the fuck there next to him. And his baby, for fuck’s sake. He had a baby.”

  So did I. “I killed O’Hare.”

  “You had reasons. Two.”

  “Three.”

  A gloomy fog lays heavy in the car, sucking us in. Cruise rubs his temples and says, “I’m sorry.”

  An apology won’t bring my baby or Chad back, but I appreciate it.

  Jason leans forward. His hand covers my shoulder, but I quickly shrug out from under it. He says, “I’m sorry about your loss.”

  My loss? That’s what my baby is—a loss in the aftermath of a war my father started. He bankrolled these criminals to cover what? Dirty dealings? Offshore accounts? Fuck him. Fuck him. I kick the dashboard.

  Cruise leans his head back with his eyes closed, leaving me to be the one to reply. I won’t give Jason my sorrow. I owe him nothing. He’ll get only what I want him to. “We should go.”

  Cruise’s face has fallen, a paler, sicklier version sitting there sweating. His door flies open and he runs to the back corner of the laundromat. His stomach is expelled onto the concrete, and as I stare at his hunched-over body, I realize I’ve never seen him so emotional.

  I get out and take the driver’s seat. When he returns, I say, “I’ll drive.” I won’t forget where Jason and I left off, but right now, I need to get Cruise back to the penthouse before some cops find us sitting here looking like the criminals we’ve become.

  As I back up, I turn to look Jason in the eyes once more. He may be able to kill without a second thought, but that doesn’t mean I’ll cower to him. As he said himself, he’s being paid to do a job. I’m not sure what that job is anymore, now that Firefly is back.

  Forty-five minutes later, Cruise is calmer, but his eyes are still wild when we walk into the penthouse. I don’t take two steps before I stop. Sara Jane doesn’t get up from the couch, but she does look our way. Her gaze lands on me first and then slips to Jason. The seconds shared between them is unsettling, and I start walking again, stepping in front of him, to break the connection. “You’re here.” I state the obvious, feeling guilty for I don’t know what.

  “Hi would be nice.”

  “Hi.” I smile, but it’s all wrong. I feel it and she knows it. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are y
ou doing here?” she snaps back.

  Approaching her, I say, “You shouldn’t have left the manor. You just had major surgery.”

  “You weren’t there.”

  I sit next to her to lessen her irritation, for her and for me. Kissing her on the cheek, I rub my hand underneath her skirt, over her bare thigh. “You should be in bed,” I whisper in her ear and then kiss her behind her earlobe.

  “You should be there with me.”

  Angling my head, I look her in her pretty eyes and smile. “I’m not the one who’s in recovery.”

  “Alexander,” she pleads, my name spoken only for me to hear. “I thought we were moving forward, moving away from the dangers that got us here.”

  I stand with her hand in mine. Looking down at her, I offer her my other hand to help her up. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Will you stay with me?” Her bottom lip wobbles, and her eyes become glassy.

  “Yes.”

  Standing slowly, her gaze drops. “You weren’t tonight.”

  “I have to work, Sara Jane.”

  “You’re not working. You’re hunting, so I’m here, begging. Begging you to stop this before someone else . . .” Yanking her hands from mine, she moves around me and heads for the door. “I can’t . . .”

  “You can, Sara Jane, and you will.”

  Spinning around, her glare hits me like two deep-blue daggers. “What did you say?”

  “I’ve had a rough night. I don’t want to fight with you, but I’m not letting you leave.”

  “You’re not ‘letting’ me do anything. I do as I please, just like you.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

  I’m too tired to fight, and she’s right. I’m not above giving her credit. “You make your own choices and I make mine, but maybe we can still meet in the middle.”

  “How?” Moving in front of me, she grips the front of my shirt. I can see desperation in her eyes. “Tell me how, Alexander, and I’ll try. I promise, but all I think about is Chad being shot and watching life leave his eyes right in front of me.” Tears roll down her cheeks while her fingers grip tighter. “Tell me how to get those memories out of my head. Every time you leave the manor, I worry you’re next. I see you in my nightmares—life leaving your eyes. What if you leave one night and don’t come back? What then, Alexander? Tell me how to meet you in the middle of our choices when I live with the fear of you never returning to me, and I’ll do it.”

  One of her hands falls to her side before she tries to drag it to her head, her body swaying. “I’m not feeling wel—”

  “Sara Jane?” She faints and I catch her, her weight pulling me down. Reaching down, I lift her into my arms. “Sara Jane?” I set her down on the couch. “Call 911.”

  Jason rushes over, kneeling beside her as Cruise flicks on the lamp. Jason says, “No. We don’t need paramedics.” He takes her wrist and presses two fingers to her pulse. After a few seconds, he sets it back down. “She was in pain. This is her mind’s way of protecting her.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. That’s why women don’t remember the actual pain of childbirth. They remember the process, but the mind blocks out the physical pain they endured. Give her a few hours. Her pulse should remain steady, but if it spikes, call 911.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “I watched a lot of ER growing up.”

  “Cruise, call 911.”

  Jason stands. “No. I’m kidding, but she will be okay. I used to assist with emergencies on a boat I worked on.”

  I eye him up. “For real?”

  He nods. “Yeah. Let her get some rest.”

  Picking her up, I hold her carefully and make my way down the hall to the bedroom. I lay her on the bed and take her shoes off. Cruise comes in as I tuck her in. I can hear Jason shuffling around the kitchen down the hall, and I look at Cruise. “How much can we trust him?”

  Cruise shakes his head. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  “Fuck. That’s what I thought.”

  16

  Sara Jane

  My eyelids flutter open then quickly close again. The dim light from the lamp is too bright for the dreamy state I wish I could remain in. I roll over and groan. For a few seconds, I was lucky enough not to remember the pain, or the past, or . . . I sigh. The present.

  I open my eyes again and stare at the ceiling. Looking right and then left, panic sets in. Where am I? Checking the clock next to me, it reads 6:59. By how dark it is through the blinds covering the window in front of me, I assume it’s morning. It’s not the time or the darkness that holds my attention though. It’s the little plate with a stack of four Oreos and the glass of milk on the nightstand that calms me and fills my heart equally.

  Alexander.

  Smiling, I carefully climb out of bed, and when I open the door, I realize where I am. I pad softly down the hall to the living room and wonder where Alexander is.

  “You’re a terrible patient. You know that?”

  I know the voice and smile. Turning to the kitchen, Jason stands in a T-shirt and red and black checked flannel shirt, pulling an Oreo out of the package on the counter. “Why are you eating my Oreos?” I move to sit on a stool, the kitchen bar separating us.

  Frowning, he analyzes the cookie. “You sure? They’re here for anyone to take.”

  I reach for the package and dig one out. Pulling the cookie apart, I raise my eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure they’re for me, but you’re lucky I’m so nice and like to share.”

  With a mouthful of cookie, he winks. “Yes, I am lucky you like to share. Your boyfriend doesn’t subscribe to the same philosophy.”

  “Depends on what you’re asking him to share.” Glancing behind me for evidence of his presence, I ask, “Where is he anyway?”

  “Out.”

  Disappointment mingles with the earlier anger I felt. “That’s all I get.”

  Leaning forward, his hands placed firmly between us on the marble, he whispers, “I’m not his keeper.”

  “No, you’re just another link in his chain of command.” I struggle to hide my true feelings these days, so the frustration comes out stronger than I intend.

  “Tell me how you really feel, Sara Jane.”

  My eyes lift to meet his. “You called me Sara Jane.”

  “It’s your name. Guess I should get used to it.”

  “I guess.” A new disappointment coats my throat, remembering how much lighter things were with Eric. “Jason,” I say his name just to remind myself of it.

  This time our eyes look into the other’s too long, though neither of us bothers to apologize or turn away.

  The front door opens, and I turn to find Alexander walking in with a carrier of coffees and a box of what looks like donuts. His indigo eyes shine until he spots Jason. He glances from me to Jason and then to the Oreos between us. Ignoring Jason, he focuses on me. “Hey,” he says, “you’re up. How are you feeling?”

  “Starved and wondering where you are at this hour?”

  He sets the box in front of me on the bar. “I brought you breakfast. It’s from that place you love.”

  I mentally kick myself for being upset moments earlier for him being gone when he is being so sweet. “That’s not close.”

  “It’s okay. I know you love their donuts.” He pulls a coffee from the carrier and sets it down for me. “Mocha latte. It may be cold now.”

  “It’s the thought that counts.” I roll my eyes because my emotions start getting the best of me. So embarrassing.

  Alexander smiles and wipes the corners of my eyes. “Why are you crying?”

  “They’re happy tears.” Looking at the box and coffee cup, I wrap my arms around his middle. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” His hands cover my back as he rubs gently.

  “Breakfast in bed? Want to join me?”

  “Yeah, you go ahead. I’ll be right in.”

  “Okay.” I take my coffee and head back to the bedroom.

  T
he crinkle of the Oreo packaging is heard. I would turn to see what the commotion is, but like he does with me, I think Alexander just staked claim over the cookies too. My smile can’t be stopped, a giggle follows.

  Once in the bedroom, I head into the bathroom. When I come out, Alexander is sitting on the end of the bed bent forward. His posture—the way his back curves down, his head a weight, dragging him down—he looks so tired. He looks up, but his body remains slumped. Standing in front of him, I lift his chin with the tips of my fingers and whisper, “That show you put on for him, you don’t have to do that. I can see what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, but that’s in your head.” Kneeling in front of him, I clasp my hands over his knees. “Jason and I are friends. I won’t lie to you, so when I tell you that he and I grew close while I was away, we grew as friends only. Nothing more. No one can replace you, but more importantly, I need you to remember who I came back to.”

  It’s just a breath slipping from his lips, but I hear it. “Me.”

  “You told me if I ever came back, it would be for good. I came back. I’m here; in all ways, I’m here. Forever.”

  “I’m going to screw up.”

  “You already have, and I’m still here.”

  “I’m going to disappoint you.”

  “And I’ll still be here.”

  “Why?”

  Cracking a smile, I reply, “Because you brought Oreos.” My smile softens as I stare into his needy eyes, the ones I want to take away the need and replace it with peace. “Wherever you are, I am.” I stand, but our hands stay locked together until I place his hand—his strong and warm hand—right over my heart. “Do you feel that?”

  “I feel how fast your heart beats.”

  “That’s your heartbeat. You own every beat of it.” Touching his chest over his heart, I feel the same fast but steady beat. “And this is mine.”

  His breathing picks up, matching the pounding inside his chest. Standing before me, he kisses me. I welcome him and his tortured soul, his battered heart, and his insecurities. I want to heal him like he’s healing me.