by Donya Lynne
"Fine, Micah, play that way. But you and I are going to have a long talk real soon about what's been going on with you for the past two-and-a-half weeks."
It was clear Tristan wasn't buying it, but he was the delusional one if he thought Micah would sit through a one-on-one over the matter.
"Quit bustin' my chops, Tris. I've got shit to do." Yeah, like buy a tractor-trailer of groceries to feed the bottomless pit known as his stomach, while trying to figure out what was going on inside his body over this Samantha chick. Hmm, I wonder if she'd be home tonight if I swung by for a visit.
"Well, I expect your ass at the compound tomorrow night, Micah. I'll give you tonight, but tomorrow night, you're checking in."
With a roll of his eyes, Micah feigned a salute as he popped the last bite of Quarter Pounder in his mouth then wadded up all the empty wrappers and tossed everything in the trash with the empty Coke cup.
"Fine, Chief. I could use the gym, anyway." It had been weeks since he had done any lifting and his body was craving the burn.
Thoughts of the short-haired blonde he had met the night before invaded his mind. Her green eyes, her gentle lips, the way her hands had felt so confident and sure as she had palpated him.
"You could use a haircut, too," Tristan said. He was trying to sound authoritative, which was a joke with Micah, and Tristan knew it. "I'll see if Josie feels well enough to give you a trim."
Micah leaned against the counter, his stomach content for the moment, even if his mind was a mess of confusion. "How is she?" Micah knew she had been suffering through a rough first trimester.
"Touch and go. She's been really sick, but the doc says that's normal and should pass soon. She was feeling pretty good when she got up tonight." Tristan fidgeted with his keys, looking down at the floor before glancing back at Micah. "She'd love to see you. She's been worried."
Feeling a twinge of regret, because he liked Josie and hated upsetting her, Micah glanced away. Grabbing a pen off the counter, he thumbed the cap off then popped it back on as he fiddled with it. "Tell her I'm sorry. Things were shitty for a while, but I'm better now." It was the most he would say on the subject.
And I'll be even better once I get another taste of Samantha Garrett.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Steve Garrett hung up the phone. The last year had been a colossal waste of time and money.
He paced in front of the large picture window overlooking the wooded tree line that sloped down the hill behind his home in one of Denver's more elite and secluded subdivisions. His dark-haired reflection stared back at him in the glass, as did the fire flickering in the fireplace behind him.
After his blood pressure normalized, he flipped open the slip of notepaper he had been clutching in his other hand then dialed the number that had been scrawled on it.
"Hello?"
"Is this David?" Steve said.
"Depends on who wants to know."
"My name is Steve Garrett. I was referred to you by a friend."
"What kind of friend?"
"One who runs on the wrong side of the law."
Silence on the other end, then, "You must be referring to Kaplan."
"Maybe." Steve liked David already.
"What can I do for you, Dr. Garrett?"
"How did you—?" This was his first contact with David. How did he already know he was a doctor? Well, a surgeon, but whatever.
"Please, Dr. Garrett. Give me credit for being good at my job."
David's job: Bounty hunter, private investigator, finder of hard-to-find things. Steve didn't really care or want to know how he knew what he did or performed his job. Only one thing mattered, and that was results.
"Fine," Steve said. "I need you to find my wife."
"Your wife, huh?" A pause. "Samantha Marie Garrett, date of birth July 15, ex-Army, born in Missouri. That her?"
"You're hired."
"We haven't even discussed my rates, Dr. Garrett."
"You can call me Steve. And I don't need to hear your rates. I'll pay whatever it takes. I just fired the last guy who tried to find her, and he was useless, so I've already wasted enough money. I want the best, David. You don't mind if I call you David, do you?"
"Nope. You can call me whatever you want as long as you pay the bill."
"Good. Send me your contract and I'll return it to you immediately." Steve rattled off his email.
"I'll get it to you in ten minutes." David paused. "Don't worry, Steve, I will find your wife. I never fail."
"That's what I've heard." His skin prickled. Sam would be his again. Soon. He could feel it. David would succeed where his last P.I. had failed.
He disconnected and returned to his bedroom. The naked woman tied to his bed squirmed and bit down on the gag. Her eyes flared with arousal as he picked up the riding crop from the edge of the bed. Her skin was still reddened in patches on her breasts and thighs from when he had played with her before his phone call.
"Now where were we?" he said. "We've got ten minutes."
* * *
Sam woke up rubbing her hand over her wrist. It was hard to tell if it ached or itched as she scratched her blunt nails over two red, swollen bumps. What the hell had bitten her while she slept? Spiders? The marks didn't look or feel like spider bites.
Making a mental note to call the landlord later about bringing in an exterminator, she rolled her head to the side and checked the clock on the nightstand.
"Oh, hell." She half-groaned as she forced herself to sit up.
How had it gotten so late? She should have been up and showered by now.
As she tried to stand, the room spun and she plopped right back down on the bed, wincing at the sudden pounding in her head. It felt like she had the flu, her body achy and weak.
That's when she noticed she was still dressed in the clothes she had worn home from work last night. Sam had slept all day. Over twelve hours. That wasn't like her.
And what about the man? She hadn't dreamed him because the mess of her First Aid kit still littered the floor. That man had actually been here, so where was he now? Had he knocked her out? Stolen her purse?
She whipped her head around toward her purse on the kitchen counter and paid the price as a bolt of lightning bounced around inside her skull. She winced through the pain, but at least her purse was still here. Her duffel bag was still on the floor, too, and she could just see the butt of her Beretta sticking out. Moving more slowly, she glanced around the apartment and found everything in place.
The mysterious dark-haired man with the amazing navy blue eyes had left her meager home intact, but had somehow been able to get up and walk out without her remembering. How had he even been able to move in his condition? He had been in bad shape. Who got up and walked away from such a horrible beating?
Apparently, that guy did.
Steadying herself, she managed to stand and work her way to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with water and drank like the desert in a rainstorm. She was so thirsty, craving orange juice, for some reason.
She grabbed the Tropicana Pulp-Free from the fridge and drank straight from the bottle in heavy gulps, keeping the bottle with her as she hurried to the bathroom and cranked on the shower. The water and juice made her feel a little better and steadier on her feet as she quickly stripped and stepped into the tub.
The hot shower invigorated her back to half-alive, but she wondered how she would make it through her shift. How could she dance large tips into her G-string when she felt like a half-dead zombie? What had happened last night to make her body feel like it had been run over by a bulldozer?
She replayed the events from the parking garage until the time she got Mr. Mysterious home, and then it felt like something was missing. She remembered him suddenly lurching toward her as she had started to clean the wound on his shoulder. The next thing she recalled was the two of them on the floor, him asking questions that made no sense.
Closing her eyes, Sam leaned back in the spray, rinsing her hair
. Unbidden thoughts of the man called to her memory, just snippets that had no beginning or end, almost like extra puzzle pieces that didn't fit into the bigger picture. His mouth on her, his tongue laving her wrist. Why had he done that? Sam couldn't remember, but she could recall how it had made her feel. That simple, warm caress of moisture on her skin had touched her to the core. Even now, the memory of his eyes ranging her seductively as his tongue caressed her skin made her womb clench. Heat flooded the heart of her.
The man's memory tugged at her like she was a roped calf, helpless to run away or do anything to free herself.
"Who are you?" she whispered to the lightly mildewed walls. "Where did you come from?"
No man had excited her this way in a long time, and she didn't even know his name. Maybe the anonymity was the allure. Maybe the fact that he was a mysterious, sexy stranger was the fuel for her fantasy: A tall, dark stranger, his gaze like blue fire. His tongue used on her in a way that makes her pulse race. He eases up behind her in the shower. The smooth glide of his arms around her waist makes her yearn to feel his naked body press against her back. He's tall, easily six inches taller than she is, so he looms over her like a protective guard, keeping her safe as his large hands range up her torso to caress her breasts.
Sam could almost feel him against her as her own hands followed along with his in her fantasy, feeling her taut nipples against her palms.
Knowing she was already late for work, she didn't care. Thoughts of him awoke her body, and she suddenly felt almost normal, as if thinking about him served to heal her of whatever ailment she had suffered to make her feel beaten and battered upon waking.
As her hands dove between her legs, she opened wider, dropping her head back as if on his shoulder, wishing – yes – that it was him touching her instead.
CHAPTER NINE
Micah hauled his ass to AKM. He decided to skip the haircut Tristan had suggested, going straight for the training center after checking the dashboard. Thank fuck the place was empty. Micah wasn't in the mood for a whole lot of hey-buddy-where-have-you-been? Which was exactly what he feared he would get when someone saw him. Trace, Malek, and Io would know not to bug him, but Arion didn't seem to get that Micah didn't like to talk, and Micah hadn't figured out the new guy, Severin, just yet. And Tristan was Tristan. He'd be all up in Micah's ass for weeks.
He had been going at the weights for a good half-hour and was in the middle of an eight-rep of bench press when Arion appeared at his head, spotting him through the last four. Banging them out, Ari helped him re-rack the bar as Micah sat up.
"Hey, Micah. Are you sure you should be hitting the weights this hard?"
Micah glanced askance at him, his trademark scowl firmly in place. He noted how Ari eyed the loaded bar with concern then dropped his gaze to the faint, almost-healed scars on his arms. Arms that probably looked much too thin to Ari to be pushing that kind of weight.
"You got something to say to me, Ari?" Micah's gruff voice was full of fuck-off-and-mind-your-own-business. It was clear Arion thought Micah's head was screwed on either too loosely or too tightly, but either way, it meant he thought Micah was in no shape to be here working, let alone pumping out eight reps at 315 pounds.
Arion shrugged, wavering briefly. The two had never gotten along, and Micah had a way of intimidating those around him. Maybe it was his brooding silence or the ever-present scowl that never left his face. Hell, it could have been the nonverbal fuck-off his body language threw out like a warning beacon: Leave this one alone, or he'll fuck your world right to hell and back.
But Arion always seemed to find the courage – or was that stupidity – to go on chasing the Devil. Fucking hell, did Ari think he was a priest and Micah was a soul that needed saving? Sometimes Micah wondered if the fucker had a death wish or if he simply enjoyed stirring Micah's pot. Every time they had one of these discussions, Micah thought Arion was ready to back down – that he had finally realized that Micah didn't appreciate his invasive prodding. Then he seemed to gather his courage and plod on, pissing Micah off even more. As if Arion had room to talk for the fucked up life he lived. One of these days real soon Micah had a feeling he and Ari were going to throw down if this shit didn't stop.
He just wanted to be left alone. Let his soul burn in hell. As long as it meant he would have his privacy, Micah didn't care.
"Where have you been, Micah?" Arion said, shaking his head in frustration.
Micah turned his head and glowered. The little asshole had done it again, keeping on when he should have just walked away.
"Fuck off."
"You look like shit. How much weight did you lose? Thirty pounds? How much? And what the hell did you do to your arms?"
This was how Arion was, a pain in his ass and a thorn in his side. "Who died and made you my conscience?" Standing, Micah blew him off and started to walk away, but that little cuss just got up and followed.
"Nobody, but…"
Micah spun and grabbed Arion by both shoulders and shoved him against the wall, growling. "Everyone else gives me my space, why can't you?" Giving him another hard shove, he knocked the back of Ari's head against the wall.
A chuckle brought Micah's head around. The door to the gym was propped open and Trace was standing just outside, a spank-ass grin splattered on his puss as he nodded once at Micah. He chuckled again and walked on.
Micah turned back and released Ari and smoothed his sweat-soaked hair off his face.
Ari's eyes flashed wide as he reached around and rubbed the back of his skull.
"What's going on?"
Micah turned again and saw Severin enter the training center, his long, blond hair pulled back. The new guy whipped the towel from over his shoulder, his eyes flicking between Micah and Arion before leveling an icy glare on Micah.
"Nothing," Micah said. "Ari and I were just finishing. He was agreeing to leave me alone. Weren't you, Ari?" Micah gave Ari a pointed look to emphasize that their discussion was over.
"I can see that." Severin stepped in front of Arion and bristled as if preparing for a fight.
Micah picked up the protective energy rolling off Severin like ripples in water after a rock broke the surface. He frowned curiously through narrowed eyes as he glanced back and forth between them. What the fuck was brewing between these two?
"It's okay, Sev," Arion said, stepping out from behind him.
"No, it's not okay." Sev looked over his shoulder at Ari. "He's being a dick."
Micah scoffed, drawing Severin's attention again. "Cool out, pretty boy. I won't hurt your boyfriend. And you couldn't take me, anyway."
"You think?" Sev tossed his towel to the side, taking a step forward like he was ready to throw down.
"No. I know." Micah knew not many could take him down. Even with his massive weight loss, he was bigger, stronger, and more ruthless than most. Severin was a big-ass boy, though, with shoulders wide as a Mack truck – wider than Micah's, even though Micah had him in the height department. Still, Sev was young. But Micah had superior strength.
With a last, lingering glower in Arion's direction, he turned and walked out, leaving them behind so he could escape to the showers, where he hoped to get some privacy. He stripped down and gave himself a hot, refreshing suds and scrub then stood in the raining water for several blissful, quiet minutes. After drying off, he flipped his long, black hair back and walked unabashedly naked to his locker. He squirted a glop of straightener in his hand, rubbed his palms together, then combed them briskly through his hair repeatedly before letting it fall freely over the sides of his face. The damp ends just brushed his shoulders.
He took out the black military digs that always seemed to find their way back to his locker clean, thanks to Josie and her helpers, and pulled on the canvas pants and wool sweater that now looked and felt two sizes too big.
Ari was right. He had lost a fuckload of weight over the past couple weeks. But thanks to the heavy duty eating of the past two nights, along with taking Sam's blo
od the night she saved him, Micah had already gained back six pounds. Nightly feedings for the next several days would also help.
After yanking on his leather combat boots, he shrugged into his leather bomber jacket.
"Where do you think you're going?" Tristan entered the locker room as Micah was checking the cartridge of his gun.
He holstered the piece under his arm and slid three extra clips in his pocket. "Out."
"Like hell you are."
"Stop me," Micah said with nonchalant carelessness. He slipped a set of brass knuckles in another pocket, then sat down and tucked his boot knife – the same one he had used to mutilate his arms – inside the ankle of his right boot.
"You son-of-a-bitch," Tristan said. "You've been gone over two weeks. You look like the walking dead, and it's obvious you've been suffering some major shit. Yeah, I saw your goddamn arms, you asshole. And now you act like nothing's wrong?"
Micah stood, his hair falling over his eyes. "I'll deal with it."
"Like fuck you will. And I thought I told you to get a haircut."
"That was an order?" Micah walked past him toward the exit. "I thought it was just a suggestion."
"Micah, I don't want you going out." Tristan's voice held a warning that Micah knew he couldn't back up.
"If you can stop me, I won't," Micah said, not slowing down or turning back.
Tristan followed him out, giving in with a frustrated sigh. "I want you checking in every hour, asshole."
With a wave over his shoulder, Micah dismissed the command. "I'll be back before dawn."
* * *
Tristan shook his head as he watched Micah leave the compound. He hated for his men to patrol alone, but Micah rarely allowed Tristan to enforce protocol with him. The insubordination was tolerated with Micah, though, because he was the most lethal of all the members of Tristan's team, probably because Micah was the one who showed the least amount of give-a-shit about his own life.
