Crash Into Me

by Jill Sorenson

  There was a guy across the bar who had been employing the opposite tactic. He was witty and charming in that modest way everyone liked. Self-effacing, he thought the term was. Bullshit, Stephen called it.

  The guy must have said something funny, because the small crowd of ladies he’d been chatting up burst into another round of giggles.

  Stephen didn’t understand how the guy did it; but then, he didn’t know much about women. He’d lived with Rhoda for the past three years and never come close to solving any of her screwed-up emotional equations. This morning, when he’d gone to retrieve his belongings at the duplex, she’d been totally off the wall. He told her he’d paid the rent for January but wouldn’t be back, and she’d come at him with teeth and claws.

  Christ, it had ended badly. Had he expected it to go any other way?

  Now he was a free agent, alone in a bar for the first time since turning twenty-one a year and a half ago. Any red-blooded man in his situation would be interested in talking to either of the two girls next to him. They had already introduced themselves and seemed…friendly.

  He stifled the urge to flee.

  Instead, he lifted his mug and drank deep. He wished he could think about his mom without being blindsided by guilt and shame and sadness, but he couldn’t. The beer helped. A little dope would have done better.

  Stephen knew he was weak. James had always been the strong one. And the smart one, and the handsome one. His little brother was going to be somebody. Now that their parents were gone, Stephen’s sole purpose in life was to make sure James succeeded.

  So while he waited for Destiny to come back to the mainland, he sipped his beer, responding only when asked a question and paying more attention to the guy across the bar than the girls who were right beside him.

  Then it finally hit him. He knew the guy. Damn, drugs had messed up his head. Sometimes he felt as though he’d been walking around in a fog for the past few years.

  The guy across the bar was JT Carver. Stephen didn’t remember meeting him, and wasn’t sure how he knew his name. Maybe he’d sold pot to him a couple of times. By the looks of the dancing bears on the front of his T-shirt, he was still a stoner.

  What Stephen did recall, very clearly, was that JT was a surfer. And a john.

  Unless he was mistaken, at one time or another, he’d seen JT Carver out on the beach at night, trolling for whores.

  Stephen hunched over a little more, not wishing to be recognized. He didn’t know why, but JT struck him as a cagey bastard. Stephen had grown up cautious, always hiding out and dodging blows, so it was second nature for him to avoid shady characters.

  After spending his formative years under the rule of Arlen Matthews, Stephen knew a dangerous man when he saw one.

  “We’re staying at the Sheraton,” the girl sitting next to him said. She was blond and petite and a lot curvier than Rhoda, which he liked.

  “That’s nice,” he said. He’d never been in a motel room in his life.

  A crease formed between her brows, and he realized that he was supposed to read something more into her comment.

  “Do you have any friends around here?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She giggled, exchanging a glace with the other girl, who wasn’t quite as pretty as the first one was, and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, if you want to come along with us, we’re heading over there.”

  He looked back and forth between them. “To do what?”

  She giggled again, whispered something in her friend’s ear, and they both dissolved in laughter. “To hang out,” she explained. “You know. Party.”

  “I don’t have any pot,” he said, figuring that was what they were after.

  “We do,” she replied with a smile.

  A shiver of awareness passed through his body. Were they inviting him back to their motel room for…? Good God.

  Across the bar, JT Carver was paying his tab, preparing to leave.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “I have something else to do.”

  Sonny sent Grant a quick text as she drove down to America’s Cup Harbor. JT rented a slip on Shelter Island, and she wanted to get there before anyone else did.

  She hadn’t told Tom Bruebaker she suspected JT of sleeping with Olivia-or with Sheila, for that matter-but he might put two and two together. God forbid he bury the hatchet and call Ben. She’d never be able to question JT if the disgruntled husbands showed up.

  When she arrived, it was just past sunset and the sidewalk traffic along the marina was steady. Shelter Island was a patrolled, gated community, and it cost a lot of money to tenant here. Gleaming yachts sat alongside smaller, more modest recreational crafts and sport fishers.

  Most of the owners didn’t live aboard.

  JT’s houseboat, Captain Trips, floated quietly in a far corner, windows dark. The slap of water against the hull and the faint cacophony of distant voices were the only sounds.

  It took her less than five minutes to break in.

  The place was neat as a pin and ruthlessly organized-necessary, perhaps, with such limited space, but not what she’d expected from a party boy like him. She also found things she did expect, champagne and candlesticks, condoms and soft-core porn. Nothing terribly kinky. Just your average arsenal for seduction.

  In his closet he had casual, expensive sportswear, vintage T-shirts, and designer jeans. He must be independently wealthy, because he also owned a lot of high-tech gadgets, an impressive collection of surfboards, and a top-quality, titanium-lined wetsuit.

  Heart pounding with excitement, Sonny worked faster, sorting through a significant array of masculine beauty products and rifling through closed drawers.

  There was one nondescript cardboard box hidden beneath a pair of sweatpants in the bottom drawer. Sonny pulled out the box and took off the lid. Inside, there was a dirty green trucker hat and a pair of old sunglasses.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. These things had belonged to Arlen.

  Scrambling to her feet, she dug her cell phone out of her purse to alert Grant. And heard the click of a revolver in the entryway behind her.

  Making a split-second decision, she let the phone fall to the carpet and slipped her hand into her jacket, going for her gun.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned.

  She paused, fingers touching metal. If she ducked down as she drew her weapon, there was a good chance he’d miss.

  “This is a.38,” JT explained. “At this range it would blow a hole through you the size of a watermelon.”

  Keeping her hand where it was, she tilted her head to look at him.

  He smiled at her, coldly handsome without the charming, sleepy-eyed façade. “Remove your weapon and take out the clip.”

  It occurred to her that not only did JT know she was carrying, he knew what she was carrying. He’d been in her apartment. Feeling sick with unease, she slid her SIG out of the holster and let the clip drop.

  “Good,” he said, nodding. “Toss that on the bed.”

  “Backup is on the way,” she said, hoping it was true. “Any minute, there’ll be feds and local police crawling all over the place.”

  “Then we’d best get going,” he said.

  She turned to face him, moving slow. His eyes were cool and his hands were steady, but she knew he was afraid to approach her. As well he should be.

  “Do you have a pair of cuffs in your purse?” he asked, studying her warily.

  “If you think I’m going to make this easy for you-”

  “Do it or they’ll never find Carly.”

  Her stomach lurched. “Where is she?”

  JT’s mouth twisted with impatience. “We aren’t negotiating, bitch, we’re leaving. Now take those cuffs out and put them on your wrists or I’ll just shoot you now and be on my way.”

  It was highly inadvisable to let a perp take her to another location. Her best chance at survival was to scuffle with him, even to risk taking a bull
et in an attempt to break free.

  Because she had Carly to consider, she removed the handcuffs from her purse.

  “Make them tight,” he said.

  Gritting her teeth, she secured her own wrists. She didn’t know how he’d snuck up on her, because she hadn’t heard a sound, and the boat had never shifted under his weight. If she made it out of this situation alive, and she wasn’t sure she deserved to after this rookie mistake, she would never leave her back to a door again.

  Stephen watched JT and the woman from a distance. They were walking away from Shelter Island Marina, and in the deepening gloom, he couldn’t see her very clearly.

  Something about her was familiar.

  He hesitated, glancing back at the houseboat. It appeared as though JT had forgotten to lock up on his way out. The woman wasn’t struggling or showing any signs of distress, and JT was leading her toward other people, not away from them.

  If Stephen followed them, he might not see anything more interesting than a moonlit walk or a romantic dinner, and what he really wanted to do was snoop through JT’s belongings. He waited until the couple was out of sight before he stepped from the shadows, hurrying across the concrete pathway and slipping onto Captain Trips.

  He was afraid to turn on the lights, so he had to wait for his eyes to adjust. Heart pounding a mile a minute, he stood inside someone else’s home, a silent intruder. After an indescribable length of time, the gleaming surfaces and clean lines took shape.

  Stephen gulped, more nervous than ever. This was the kind of place where one stray fingerprint would be noticed. He had to be careful not to touch anything.

  Hands sweating, pulse racing, he moved from room to room, hoping his boots didn’t leave scuff marks on the polished hardwood. A quick glance told him what was out of place. In the bedroom, there was a clip on the ground and a gun on the bed.

  Next to the clip lay a woman’s handbag. It was lying on one side, its contents spilled across the carpet.

  “Damn,” he whispered, knowing he’d made the wrong decision. He should have followed them.

  Wiping his palms on the legs of his jeans, he reached down to pick up a single white business card. Flipping it over, he saw a familiar name.

  Special Agent Sonora Vasquez.

  “Damn!” he repeated. The woman who took off with JT was that blue-eyed FBI agent, the one who’d treated him kindly. She’d made him uncomfortable-all women did-but he’d felt an instant connection with her. A kinship.

  His eyes moved past the card, to an empty shoe box near the foot of the bed. Inside, barely discernible in the approaching dark, was one of his dad’s old trucker caps and a pair of dirty sunglasses. The lenses glinted wickedly in the meager light.

  Stephen sucked in a sharp breath. And felt his vision narrow.

  Arlen may have deserved killing, but none of those girls had. He could still see their pretty faces, smiling up at him from their photos.

  “You murdering motherfucker,” he muttered, picking up the gun. He didn’t know how to use it, but it felt good in his hands. It felt damned good. He scooped up the clip and jammed it into the chamber, surprised when it easily clicked into place.

  He was locked and loaded. Ready to go.

  And when he heard a voice behind him, a man busting through the door, he was so geared up for violence, he whirled around and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 24

  JT draped a T-shirt over her wrists, hiding the cuffs, and stuffed his gun in the pocket of his jacket. He led her down the causeway with the muzzle pressed against her spine, a chilly reminder that he meant business.

  To the casual passerby, they were a cozy couple taking a quiet stroll.

  As they approached Fisherman’s Wharf, she felt another surge of panic. At dusk, the docks were quiet, but when one last boat cruised into the harbor, she knew it was Destiny. Carly and James were safe inside, oblivious to the danger, snuggling close as they came in from their stolen afternoon at sea.

  JT had lied. Not only had Sonny allowed herself to be captured, she’d given him an opportunity to use her as leverage.

  “Don’t start resisting now,” he clucked, reading her body language. “It will hardly do them any good.”

  “Eat shit and die,” she returned in a bored tone, deliberately relaxing her shoulders. If there was any time to fight, it was at this very moment, before James and Carly got involved. Twisting her body toward him, she swung her cuffed hands up, catching him under the chin.

  He staggered back a step, stunned.

  Encouraged by the small victory, she struck again, aiming a roundhouse kick at JT’s right hand, the one holding the gun. With amazingly fast reflexes, he caught her ankle before her foot connected and jerked her off balance.

  Having no way to break her fall, she landed hard on her back. Pain jolted down her spine and the wind rushed out of her lungs.

  He looked around to make sure there were no witnesses, keeping the gun in his pocket pointed down at her. “Get up.”

  She rolled to one side, gasping for air.

  He kicked her in the ribs. Pain exploded upon impact, sharp and exquisite. She would have cried out if she could have drawn breath.

  “Get up,” he repeated, pulling her by the arm.

  She couldn’t walk and he couldn’t make her, so he dragged her useless body the last twenty feet, coming to a stop in front of Destiny as she docked. Not bothering to wait for James or Carly to greet him, he shoved Sonny aboard, digging the muzzle of his gun into the tender spot in her side.

  Sucking in a desperate lungful of air, finally, brought another bolt of agony.

  Inside the cab of the boat, James was behind the wheel with Carly at his side, leaning her head on his shoulder and ruffling a hand through his hair. When she saw Sonny and JT, she let out a little yelp.

  JT took the gun out of his pocket and placed it against Sonny’s temple. “I need to go to Mexico.”

  James put his body in front of Carly’s.

  JT ground the muzzle against Sonny’s head. “Cooperate, and no one will get hurt.”

  James’ dark gaze moved from the gun to Sonny’s face. She tried to blank her expression, hiding the pain, but he saw the evidence in her labored breathing and bowed back. Obviously, someone had already been hurt. “Let Carly out and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

  JT didn’t appreciate James’ attempt at negotiation any more than he had appreciated hers. He took the gun away from her temple, preparing to point it at James.

  In a last-ditch effort to save them, and herself, Sonny drove her elbow into JT’s midsection. It was a direct hit, and although she had the element of surprise on her side, he retaliated faster than she could follow up. With little more than an annoyed grunt, he backhanded her, sending her sprawling across the deck.

  Her head rocked back against the planks so hard she saw dark flashes.

  “As I was saying,” JT continued, rubbing his belly with his free hand and holding the gun on James with the other. “Cooperate. Keep your mouths shut. And take me to Mexico.”

  Sonny squeezed her eyes closed, reeling from the blow.

  “Carly doesn’t need to be here,” James insisted.

  “Oh, but she does,” JT countered. “I think she needs to be here most of all.”

  “Why?” James asked, fear making his voice quake.

  “Because she has to learn a lesson. One that is overdue, judging by your lovesick face and torn shirt. It seems she’s a slut, just like her mother.”

  Sonny forced her eyes open. James had a jacket over his shirt, both of which were open down the front, exposing a strip of lean midsection. His face was flat, but his stance indicated a barely restrained fury.

  “You…” Carly stuttered. Her skin was ashen and her eyes huge. James tightened his grip on her arm, as if afraid she might lunge forward. “You killed my mom.”

  “Yes,” JT admitted, sounding bored. Seeing a length of rope at his feet, he kicked it toward James. “Tie her up,�
� he said, waving the gun in Carly’s general direction. “I don’t need another she-cat clawing at me.”

  Having little choice in the matter, James picked up the rope, darting a glance at Sonny as he did so. From the ground, she looked back at him, her wrists cuffed and her head swirling with nausea, unable to offer him any type of assistance.

  James knew the score as well as she did. The options were to die now or die later. Eyes downcast, he tied the rope around Carly’s wrists, choosing to die later.

  When Ben flipped on the bedroom light, Stephen Matthews was standing there, pointing a gun at him. It made a clicking sound as he pulled the trigger.

  Ben froze, anticipating the explosion. He’d always thought images from his entire life would flash before his eyes at the moment of his death.

  Only one did. Carly’s face.

  “Goddamn, man,” Stephen said, lowering the weapon. “I almost shot you.”

  Ben let out a slow breath. Apparently, the kid hadn’t meant to give him a heart attack. Or to attempt murder. “Where’s my daughter?”

  Stephen frowned at the gun in his hand, probably wondering why it hadn’t gone off. “She’s on the boat with James,” he said, inspecting the weapon. At his feet, there was a black leather handbag and some miscellaneous female items.

  Recognizing them, Ben’s heartbeat began to thunder in his ears. He’d come to talk to JT, figuring he’d been the scumbag sleeping with Sheila. His friend had absolutely no discretion when it came to women. Now, seeing Stephen Matthews here with Sonny’s purse-and her gun-it occurred to him that JT had been up to more than adultery.

  Quite a bit more.

  “You’d better call the cops,” Stephen said.

  Ben already had his cell phone out.

  “I think the guy who lives here killed my dad. Probably all those women, too. I just saw him take off with an FBI agent.”

  “Was she all right?” Ben asked, dialing 911 with trembling fingers.

  “I think so. He might have had a gun on her. I couldn’t see.”

  She was alive. Thank God, she was still alive.