by Skye Warren
He gives me a hard look, but his voice is light. “Okay, we can have a good time without the chance of human trafficking. If you insist.”
I wouldn’t be okay with strippers on a regular day.
Today is not a regular day.
After having the sex talk with Samantha, I have no desire to watch men reduced to animals over a pair of tits. Especially when all I can see is Samantha’s full lips forming my name, her eyes fluttering as she imagines me between her thighs.
“So what’s the plan?” I say, forcing my tone to be casual.
Josh pulls out his phone and texts me. The message contains only a photo of an ordinary brown rock holding down a one-dollar bill. The prize. “Jeff’s going to fly us over the desert,” he says, referring to our resident pilot. “We each get a parachute and a bottle of water. First one to find the prize wins.”
This is what happens when you put a bunch of over-muscled alpha men together. We have to compete to find out who’s the best, even if one of us has to die trying.
I glance down at my gray button-down and black slacks that I wore for a night in the city. “You could have told me before I got dressed.”
“There are a handful of not-quite-street-legal cars waiting for us at the rendezvous point. We’ll take them into the city. Drinks. Dinner. More drinks.”
Hassan joins us at the bar, throwing his arms over our shoulders. He’s already buzzed, which is maybe not ideal for jumping into the desert. “Let’s get this fucking party started,” he says.
I raise my eyebrow at Josh, who sighs. We’ll have to jump after Hassan and make sure he makes it to the rendezvous point. It wouldn’t do to have him die the night before his wedding. His fiancée would be pissed, for one thing. And all those hors d’oeuvres would go to waste.
CHAPTER NINE
The Helicopter Quartet was written by controversial composer Karlheinz Stockhausen. It involves sending four members of a string quartet into the sky in four separate helicopters and having each musician play their individual part. Meanwhile, they are recorded and broadcasted into an auditorium where they are all played simultaneously for an audience. Stockhausen reportedly composed the piece after a series of unusual dreams involving helicopters and a swarm of bees.
LIAM
The call comes when I’m ten thousand feet above the ground. A small buzz in my pocket, which reminds me to zip my phone and wallet into the harness so I don’t lose them on the way down. I glance at the screen. A notification that someone’s at the south rear exit.
Someone’s always coming and going at the compound. An overzealous security system monitors every single entry point. I’m anal enough to leave the notifications on even though I don’t usually need to see who it is. Except right now almost everyone is on a job or in the chopper. I left two men at North Security, one on guard duty, one off. I don’t expect trouble, but I’m a cautious man. Untrusting.
Which means there are very few people who could be leaving right now.
If I had to guess, it would be Cody in his beat-up truck that’s older than him with a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it. He probably visited Laney and Samantha, playing Mario Kart in the game room. There are a few people in front of me to jump, so I swipe to pull up the secure app that streams the video cameras.
Sure enough, there’s the white truck pulling to a stop.
The gate slides open, well-maintained and smooth. The truck pulls forward and disappears from view. Relief fills my chest, which is funny considering I’m about to jump out of the open side door of the chopper. This is an adrenaline jump. A good-time jump. A hundred times easier than having the sex talk with Samantha, pretending that I think of her as a daughter when I don’t.
Hassan jumps, and the men cheer.
The next few guys go quickly. They’re eager to get down on the ground so they can beat the groom-to-be. Either that or they’re hungry. Probably both.
Josh glances back at me, a question in his eyes. We’ve been through enough close calls that he can feel the unease inside me without me having to say a word. He can feel it even before I do.
Why the fuck am I uneasy?
Everything I do at home, the training and the security, it’s about precaution—not actual danger. That’s for South America and the Middle East. That’s for the fucking jungle that is Washington DC. In the hill country of Texas? This is my land. I shouldn’t be worried about a damn thing.
I give Josh a terse nod. Whatever it is, it can wait.
He offers a salute, lacking his usual ironic twist.
When it comes to the command structure, we don’t fuck around, not even on a bachelor party. He jumps, his movements as casual as stepping off a porch. The wind carries him sideways, so it looks like he’s floating. In the next moment a deepening fog swallows him whole. My stomach clenches into knots, but it has nothing to do with the men who just jumped out of the helicopter.
“Your turn,” comes a voice in my ear. The pilot.
“Sorry, Jeff. Looks like you’re our designated driver.”
“We’re all driving once we get to the cars,” he reminds me, his voice unnaturally clear as the wind buffets around me, pulling me toward the door even as it tries to shove me deeper into the belly of the chopper. “And I’d rather be behind the controls than jumping out.”
I glance at my phone again, sliding the little circle on the video replay back. There’s the white truck again. I can make out his silhouette, but only barely. It’s brighter in the air than it was on land. Dusk already fell. I narrow my eyes at the video, watching as the truck pulls forward.
There. A movement, breaking the flat line of the seat beside him.
As if someone had been crouched low to hide from the cameras, bobbing up a second too early. Who the fuck is in the truck with him? I’m afraid I already know. My gut was legendary in the navy. It’s not about a magical sixth sense. It’s a culmination of all my tactical knowledge and hands-on experience. A million different data points coalesced into a single decision—safety or danger. Life or death.
“Hell,” I say.
“What’s wrong?”
“Take me back to the compound,” I say, biting out the words. Except they’re already gone. Even at 150 knots it’s going to take twenty minutes. They already have a head start, and there’s only one place they would go, especially without telling me. Into the city.
To practice that safe sex you told her about, my mind says helpfully.
Jesus.
“Sir?” comes Jeff’s voice. He wouldn’t normally question an order, but this isn’t exactly a mission. If I stay quiet another two seconds, he’s going to turn the chopper around no matter what.
“Belay that,” I say, my voice harsher than I intend. “Keep going.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, which is basically the same as asking what the fuck I’m thinking.
I honestly have no idea. Why the fuck is she going into the city right now? The answer is simple: to put the safe sex talk into action.
Which means she could be hooking up with some frat boy right now.
All I can see is red when I think of some asshole in a club thinking Samantha’s an easy target. It would be easy to blame Laney for being a bad influence or Cody for helping her sneak out, but Samantha’s a smart girl. She knows how dangerous the world can be. There’s a fucking reason she isn’t allowed to drive around without an escort. But I haven’t told her every single reason. That’s on me.
Yeah, I’ll take this jump, but I have no intention of tracking down a dollar bill.
“Tell the boys not to wait up for me,” I say. That’s the last thing I get out before I step off the helicopter floor. The wind holds me tight in its grasp, sucking the air out of my lungs. I’m twisted and turned, and I let my body drift through it.
Adrenaline surges through my veins, but I save it, save it, save it. That’s for later, when I find Samantha somewhere in the city. And whatever fucker thinks he can put his hands on her.
SAMANTHA
Bass reverberates through rusted metal and torn leather. The truck pulls to a slow stop around the corner from the club, hiding in the shadow of an abandoned warehouse.
“I don’t like this,” Cody says, gripping the steering wheel like he’s forcing himself to keep it still. He looks about two seconds away from kicking the gear into drive and taking us home.
“Of course you don’t like it,” Laney says, fighting to open the door. It fights right back, struggling to keep her inside as if it’s an extension of Cody’s will. She gives it a kick with her black heels, and the door finally springs open with a bereaved grunt. “You don’t like anything fun.”
“We’re only going for an hour,” I say quickly before Cody can change his mind.
Cody lives with his father in an apartment in town. His father isn’t around much, which is probably a good thing. Most nights he’s in a bar starting a fight.
And spending the next day in lockup.
Laney’s mother works for North Security. She’s on the Red Team, the most active group of soldiers, so Laney stays on the compound more often than not. The three of us made up a strange little band of friends, despite our many differences. Like the fact that Cody has in-out privileges at the gates without needing a security escort. That comes from doing work after school on the compound. Ironic, since he’s the only one of us who doesn’t live there.
“Why did I agree to this?” Cody mutters, more to himself than to me. “Your parents probably know a hundred ways to kill someone. And they’re definitely going to kill me.”
“No, they’re not, because they’re not going to find out.” Laney slams the door shut and then smiles sweetly through the dusty window, posing as if for a camera.
I hide a wince in the back seat. It’s not a very well-kept secret that Cody has had a crush on Laney since the day they met. That’s not exactly Laney’s fault. She can’t help the fact that he has a crush, but she does seem to take a certain delight in tormenting him.
“I’ll make sure she’s safe,” I promise, stepping out into the cool night.
“Hell,” Cody says, and I close the door against the ache in his voice. He wants to be the one escorting her into a nightclub like the line of couples behind a velvet rope. Not as part of a secret night out and definitely not as our designated driver.
“You’re mean,” I whisper as Laney links our arms together.
“Maybe,” she says, sounding a little sad. “But this is for his own good.”
“I still think we should tell him what we’re doing.”
“He would never have driven us here if he knew.”
Laney tosses her hair back, marching right up to the bouncer, bypassing the line of people. “Hey, sweetheart. We’re looking for a good time.”
The man has arms the size of my head. He looks intimidating, and considering I live in a sprawling complex that houses armed mercenaries, that’s saying something. His dark gaze sweeps down Laney’s body, leaving no doubt that he’s weighing what he’s seeing.
My impromptu blouse and short shorts might look sassy enough to get into a club, but her red dress is the star of the show.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“The name’s Jennifer,” she lies.
“Sure it is,” he says, stepping aside to let us in. “I go on break in thirty.”
Laney waves at him as we slip past.
“How are we going to find this guy?” I shout to be heard over the thump thump thump. Someone stamps my hand, and then I’m shoved into a sea of people.
Bodies move me back and forth, interchangeable, indistinguishable. My stomach clenches. I’ve never been around this many people at once. Strobe lights flash over the blinding white smile of a woman. The heavy-lidded eyes of a man. Writhing bodies that make plain the kind of sexual knowledge I could only pretend earlier, humping my pillow alone.
CHAPTER TEN
The word “music” comes from the word “muse” in Greek. The Muses were daughters to Zeus and Mnemosyne, and protected the arts, including writing, dance, and music.
SAMANTHA
The front looks like a warehouse with a bar installed. Laney slips a wad of hundreds to a bouncer, and we wind up in the VIP section in the back.
Once we slip past the red velvet curtain, the scene changes completely. Deep leather couches create little islands for people to talk… or other, more physical activity. Raised sections of the floor surrounded by a metal railing put on a show.
“Women only,” the bouncer says, nodding to the platform.
“Sweet,” Laney says, grabbing my hand. “Let’s dance.”
I linger near the entrance, reluctant to be the center of attention. There are other women dancing, and Laney was right about one thing—my impromptu outfit doesn’t look out of place. “We’re not here to dance,” I say. Laney is crazy smart, but she’s like a hummingbird, drifting from flower to flower, her body held in suspension only because of how fast she moves.
She snorts. “Yeah, sure. Let’s stand at the door asking every person whether they’re going to sell us incriminating photos. We’re trying to appear normal, remember?”
That’s enough to push me up the short steps to join the other women. I can be normal, damn it. I can do normal things like dance in front of a bunch of men I don’t know in what basically amounts to my underwear… Acid rises in my throat. Oh God, I can’t do this.
I’ve never heard the song that plays over the speakers, loud enough that the bass reverberates in my bones. That’s just another sign that I’m not actually normal. I can name the composer in a handful of opening notes for most classical music, but I don’t know what’s popular on the radio right now.
A man reclines on the black leather, his skin a sharp contrast to the shadows, his gaze locked on mine. Most of the men are looking at the bodies in motion. He’s looking at me—with amusement.
Panic wraps itself around my throat, and I close my eyes against the strobe lights.
The darkness settles over me, and I can block out the dancing around me and the men surrounding us. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know the song. I know the beat. The notes. The rhythm. Music is a universal language, and it speaks through me now, moving my hips in time.
In the best moments I don’t move the bow or the strings. It’s they who move me the way they need. That’s what happens now, a kind of perfect passivity. The bass takes hold of me. My body reacts to the overt sexuality of the lyrics, turning warm and then hot, molten by the time the track thump thumps its way to transition to a new song.
I open my eyes and realize that Laney’s watching me, her eyes wide. And she’s not the only one. “I didn’t know you could dance,” she says, something like awe in her voice.
Heat rushes my cheeks. “I can’t.”
That makes her laugh, almost a euphoric sound, one that expresses the freedom that I feel in every breath after being caged for so long. “You should see yourself.”
I can’t help but grin back. “You’re a maniac.”
“Back atcha,” she says, throwing her arms around me for a hug.
“I’m going to look around,” I say as I squeeze her back.
There is no one more loyal or caring than Laney, but she’s already distracted by the music, shaking her booty with another woman when I duck beneath the railing.
I glimpse broad shoulders in the crowd, and my heart skips a beat.
It can’t be Liam, of course. He doesn’t know I sneaked off the property. He doesn’t know what club I’m in or that we paid our way into the VIP section, but that doesn’t stop the worry from bumping through my veins. Swallowing hard, I force myself to skirt the edges of the room, looking for someone who might be looking for me.
Laney is right about one thing—we can’t stand at the door asking every person whether they’re going to sell us incriminating photos. Only about half of the clubgoers are dancing.
The other half are standing around, looking sexy and faintly dangerous.
Then I glance up at a dark balcony. There are no dancing people up there. Only a single man wearing a black button-down shirt and dark jeans. I recognize him as the one who watched me dance before. He could be any one of the men come to pick up girls, but he surveys the club with a sense of proprietorship, as if he’s above it all.
His dark gaze meets mine, and an eyebrow arches in challenge.
I feel my cheeks flush. Is this how I would react to anyone flirting with me? Except I have the sense that he isn’t flirting. At least, not only that. There’s a sense that he’s waiting to see whether I’ll react. Like maybe he’s looking for the buyer to incriminating photos.
Circling the edge of the room I find a black spiral staircase with a thin metal railing. It leads me up to the balcony, where he remains with his forearms on the rail.
“What’s your name?” this man asks.
“Samantha,” I say before realizing that I could have made something up.
North Security is located in Kingston, Texas, a small town that had plenty of undeveloped land for Liam to purchase twenty years ago. There are endless hills for his obstacle courses as well as natural features like lakes and cliffs and even caves.
People in Kingston know the ex-military men who visit the security company. Sometimes they even know Samantha Brooks, the violinist who appears in newspaper articles.
We’re in Austin right now, the city with a sprawling college campus and state government buildings and a bubbling tech industry. There’s no way anyone would know who I am. Except that he gives me a slight, knowing smile.
“Samantha. You look different than the pictures online.” There’s nothing but ordinary lust in his eyes as his gaze dips to my silk blouse and the flushed skin it reveals.
