by S. Massery
“When did you take your shirt off?”
She starts to move away, but I fist my hands in the fabric and hold her steady.
“I was in the middle of changing when the cars exploded,” she says. She puts her hand on my chest, keeping distance between us. “I didn’t have time to struggle into a shirt—”
“I get it,” I say. I know what that sudden fear feels like. I’d love to say I didn’t—that I was untouchable, invulnerable—but the truth is, I’ve seen too many people injured or killed because I was too far away to help them.
If only you were on the ground to pull them to safety, a voice in my head regularly whispered. If only you were there instead of three klicks away, hidden by shrubbery and sand.
I shake myself out of that line of thought and focus back on the present. On Grace. She drops her hand from my chest, and I instantly miss the weight of it. There’s dirt on her cheek and in her hair. I’m an asshole for only just noticing that.
“I can’t lift my arm,” she says. “It got stiffer…”
“It’s okay,” I answer. “Lean forward.”
I slide it over her head and off her arms as gently as I can, but gentle has never really been in my playbook. I know exactly how much strength it will take to squeeze the triggers of my firearms, how much power I’ll need to slide the bolt back, how much energy I’ll have to reserve to get back to my crew. But I can’t say I’ve ever touched a woman like I’m touching Grace.
She presses the sweatshirt over her chest with her good arm, taking a quick step back.
“Thanks,” she says. A shiver runs up her body. “I’m going to, ah, shower…”
“You’ve bled through the bandage,” I say. I forget the whiskey on the kitchen counter and follow her up the stairs. “It needs to be changed. Cleaned.”
“I can do it.”
“One handed?”
She huffs. “Yes.”
I stop halfway up the stairs.
She senses it and turns around. “Your one-eighty mood is confusing me,” she says. “Go back to being an asshole.”
I close my eyes for half a second. She’s right. I’ve been confusing her tired, innocent attitude as her real personality. Big mistake. When I open my eyes, she’s still in front of me. Waiting.
“I was just hoping to catch a glimpse of your boobs.” Really, I would’ve said anything to make her stop looking at me like that. Like she knows me.
It works. She rolls her eyes and spins back around, jogging up the stairs.
And me?
I go back to my fucking whiskey.
15
GRACE
I lock myself in the bathroom and lean against the door. I’m tempted to stay in here forever. His hands on my skin, just the barest brush…
Nope.
I peel off my pants with one hand, trying not to move my arm too much. I kick them off, then inspect my arm. Dalton was right, I did bleed through the bandage. The skin around the stitches is angry red, and clear liquid oozes out where one of the stitches broke.
I pull the thread out, biting my lip, and drop it on the counter.
There’s a fuzzy robe hanging on a hook near the shower, which is already stocked with shampoo and conditioner. I turn the water on and hop up on the counter, waiting for steam to fill the room. This has been a whirlwind few days.
I try not to picture Dalton downstairs, and instead turn my thoughts back toward my dad.
It’s so weird thinking of him as Dalton instead of Morning Star—or the devil, as Dad always called him. He’s all three: an elusive sharpshooter, an evil bastard, and a regular man. Reconciling that in my head… I don’t know which of those three he’ll be at any moment.
After a much-needed shower, scrubbing my hair three times and finally just sitting under the stream of hot water, I pick myself up and turn it off.
What I would love to do is climb into bed and take a long nap. I slept for a little while at Colin’s cabin, but I woke up restless. It was compounded by the fact that Dalton hadn’t returned, and all I could think was that he was with Isabella. I was in the middle of putting on a fresh t-shirt, about to go hunt him down, when the first explosion happened.
I open the door, surprised to find a roll of gauze and a tiny bottle of antiseptic. I rub it on my arm and rewrap it. This version of myself in the mirror is different. More exhausted. And maybe lighter, too.
I tie the robe’s belt tightly around my waist. And then… well, he did say to raid his mom’s closet. How could I resist?
The master suite is on the third floor. It has one huge wall of windows overlooking the ocean, and I get close enough to fog up the glass. The beach directly below the house has a metal fence on either side, extending into the waves. A private beach, on top of all this luxury.
The waves rolling up the sand keep me hypnotized for a moment.
When I was thirteen, I begged my dad to let me learn how to surf. He arranged for an instructor, and when I showed up to the lesson, the twins were there, too. They charmed the pants off the instructor and kicked my ass at surfing to boot.
They were younger and much less fearful, and I resented it.
Maybe it was their ploy to keep me away from excitement. If I lived a boring life, a sheltered life, then I would accept any ‘out’ they gave me—including marrying Marco.
It may have even been their plan all along to match me with him.
I shudder and turn away from the ocean. Just seeing it reminds me of the saltwater rushing up my nose, the sand that collected in my bathing suit after every single tumble off that damn board.
Dalton’s mom has quite a closet. Half of it is her husband’s, and they’re quite comparable. Both are filled with expensive shoes, designer jeans, and slacks. Her side has dresses, and his side has sports coats.
I pull a black blouse off its hanger, checking the tag. We wear the same size shirt. Her jeans are way too long for me—maybe that’s where Dalton gets his height—but the waist is okay. I roll the cuffs of the pants and button the sleeveless black blouse.
It could be worse.
For good measure, I wander over to the dresser and the jewelry box sitting on top of it. I flip it open, fingering the gold and silver rings. Necklaces are laid out in neat rows.
I lift one of the necklaces, which has a small silver medallion on it.
“Good choice,” Dalton says from behind me.
I whirl around, clutching the necklace, and he saunters closer. He looks freshly showered, too. His hair is wet, his face is clean-shaven. His blue eyes sear into me, as hot as the first time he laid eyes on me in the basement of that club.
“I gave that to my mother when I got out of the Marines,” he says. He reaches out and takes the necklace out of my hand, holding it up to the light. “Crosshairs.”
I shudder. “Morbid.”
“I was the highest-ranked long-distance marksman when I left,” he says.
“And every time she saw that necklace, she imagined you killing people.”
He scowls, tossing the necklace back at me. “That was the point.”
“That’s fucked up.” Still, I slide it into my pocket. I’m not quite ready to let go of it, although I couldn’t say why.
“You picked my mother’s favorite blouse,” he says. There’s a smirk on his lips. “I don’t think she’s ever paired it with jeans, though.”
I roll my eyes. “Jeans or death, that’s what I always say.”
“They suit you.”
“I’m not going to read into that.”
He follows me out of the closet, down the stairs. “When I first saw you in that dress—”
He looks… stricken.
“Why don’t you believe that they were going to hurt you?”
I face forward again, sucking in a big breath. “I don’t know. I just can’t wrap my head around it, okay? And then you had to go drag me up to Javier’s office—”
“A little rash on my part,” he agrees.
“Everything ch
anged after that. And you’re still—” I break off, staring at the kitchen table. He made breakfast. A lot of breakfast, judging from the number of plates on the table with little lids covering them.
He shifts on his feet for a minute, then scoots past me. “It’s no big deal,” he says. Morning sun streams in through the window over the sink, and he crosses to the coffee pot.
“You made breakfast.”
“I ordered it,” he mutters. “See? No big deal.”
“There’s a pan still on the stove,” I argue, holding back a smile. That is, until he uncaps a bottle of whiskey and starts to pour it into his coffee. Everything comes to a screeching halt. “Are you kidding?”
He turns around. “Want some?”
“Alcohol? At eight o’clock in the morning? Are you insane?”
“It makes everything more tolerable,” he says, but he sighs. “It’s going to make you more screechy, isn’t it?”
“I’m not screeching,” I yell. Which may be proving him right—but still. “How do you know we’re even safe out here?”
“The Argentos don’t exactly fit in high-society suburbia,” he says drily.
I scoff. “They afforded you just fine.”
He straightens. “You going to hold that against me?”
“Why do you own a club and not let your employer in?”
He dumps out the contents of the mug into the sink, shaking his head. “He’s not my employer.” He says it like a dirty word.
“He paid you,” I say. I sit at the table, unnerved—and secretly impressed—that he listened to me about the whiskey. Dad drinks too much for me to be okay with day drinking. Morning drinking.
“We had a contract. I’m a freelancer.” He pours a new cup of coffee, adding a splash of half and half from the fridge, then joins me at the table. He uncovers plates, and immediately my mouth waters. “They were roughing up girls,” he says in a low voice. “Too many disappearances for me and Caden—”
“Who’s that?”
His face shutters closed. “No one.”
I lean back. The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees with that question. “Okay.”
“Let’s talk about you,” he says. He’s still uncovering dishes, and now he drops the lids to the side and spoons things onto a plate. “What do you hope comes of this?”
“What?”
“What’s the outcome you’re looking forward to?” he rephrases.
I’m still unsettled. What do I want? How do I see this ending?
“I just want to be left alone,” I mutter. And then I jolt. “Well, my dad and me. I need to talk to him.”
Dalton grunts. “Right, so you can tell them where we are?”
“Why would I do that?” I snap.
“Great question, Grace. Why—”
“Dios mio,” a woman yells from the doorway.
We both spin toward a small Hispanic woman, clutching at her chest. “Mr. Kavanaugh, you gave me a fright.”
He stands, walking quickly to her. “Mrs. Paloma,” he says, grinning. “It’s so good to see you.”
She relaxes, reaching up to pat his cheek when he gets close enough. “You should know better than to bring girls here,” she admonishes, and my eyes widen. “You have your own place to do that.”
His grin widens. It’s too bright to look at. “I missed you.”
She sniffs. “Well, you never visit.”
“Work,” he says.
“Of course. The contractor keeping you busy?”
He stiffens almost imperceptibly. “No, we parted ways. Amicably,” he adds. “I have The Nest and a new job.”
She rolls her eyes. “And introduce me to your friend.”
“Mrs. Paloma, this is Grace. Grace, my favorite woman on the planet, Mrs. Paloma. She makes the best enchiladas a man could ask for.” He leads her to the table and frowns. “I would’ve got more food if I knew you were coming over.”
“Speaking of that,” I interject, “what brings this visit?”
Mrs. Paloma stares at me. “The Surlys pay quite well to have me check on their house once a week,” she says. “Not that it’s any of your business, young lady.”
I press my lips together, withholding a smile. She reminds me of my mother. The sternness, the warmth in her eyes when she looks at Dalton, the way she looks around this house like she owns it.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of food and coffee. Dalton and Mrs. Paloma are murmuring about her son when I excuse myself from the table.
“I’m just going to go lie down,” I say, not sure if I’m quite telling the truth.
They nod at me, and off I go.
The second floor is all guest rooms and bathrooms. At the end of the hallway, I discover that one of the bedrooms has been converted into an office. It has a computer desktop set up, and I send a quick prayer that these people don’t lock their computers with a 18-digit password.
My heart hammers as I turn the computer on, crouching. I don’t know why I do it—if anything, it’ll make me seem more guilty if Mrs. Paloma or Dalton catches me.
No one comes, and the monitor flickers to life.
I lean down and pull off my boot, using my nail to pry up the heel of the sole. There’s a slim flash drive pressed into the leather, and I slip it out with nimble fingers. I plug it into the computer and hold my breath.
This could be nothing…
Or it could be everything.
The drive appears on the screen, opening to show… photos. A shit ton of them.
I click on the first one. It’s a zoomed-in photo of Marco handing a wad of cash to someone. He holds his hand out for a duffle bag in return.
The next photo is him kneeling next to the bag, unzipping it.
The third is him holding an illegal gun in the air, smiling.
My stomach flips. They’re incriminating Marco. I don’t know if it’s legal or actionable, but at least it’s something. The Argentos have half of Miami and Ft. Lauderdale’s police force on their payroll, through various means. Blackmail, protection of their family, money.
The flash drive, which was originally part of a larger USB before I stripped away the plastic, was stuck into Javier’s computer.
I eject it and shut the computer down, pulling a small plastic sleeve that once held a pair of Dalton’s mom’s earrings out of my pocket. I wrap the flash drive in the plastic, squeezing out the air, and hope that it’ll be enough to protect it from whatever happens next.
Using my thumb, I press it back into the soft bottom of my shoe, pushing the sole in place on top of it. It sits right under the arch of my foot, which hasn’t bothered me yet. I have a feeling the extra layer is going to make me feel like the princess and the pea.
I’ll be hobbling before long.
I slink back into the room I’ve appointed for myself, kicking off my boots—even though doing it makes me cringe—and flopping onto the bed. I have a view of the ocean. It’s mid-morning, but we’re facing west, and the sun is on the other side of the house. It glitters on the rushing water.
I force myself off the bed and slide the window open. Immediately, the sound of the crashing waves floods the room.
Piece by piece, the worry sweeps away. I can figure everything out later, after I’ve properly napped. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Things never go according to plan.
16
DALTON
Mrs. Paloma pretty much raised me after the divorce. By raised, I mean she gave me a sharp pinch of reality when my world started tilting off its axis. She was home base. The safety zone. She looked over my homework and cooked meals in my mother’s new empty house while she and her new husband traveled.
When the train rolled into the station, delivering me for a weekend home from boarding school, it was her who picked me up and brought me back. She made sure my clothes were clean, my toothpaste didn’t run out, and that I didn’t go insane. Or hungry.
She stayed with me in the summers after my fat
her disappeared, waving her hand when I asked about her children. Sometimes they came, too, but they stayed out of the way. She had raised them to be quiet and small.
My upbringing had made me the opposite—full of piss and vinegar, with an ugly outlook on life. Those kids, and Mrs. Paloma, softened my edges. And slowly, she taught me the merit of being quiet.
Never small, though.
There was no way to lessen my flame.
As soon as I joined the Marines, she was out. Gone. She had her two kids to raise on her own, and the income my mother provided her meant that they could afford health insurance. Go to a school in a decent neighborhood.
Oh, how I raged.
It was probably the only battle I had ever won against my mother, and it was with Surly Dick’s help. He said, in the background of our video chat, that he didn’t think she was slacking that bad. The house was still spotless, the meal-prep for the week still got done, the fridge and freezer stocked for the week.
I gritted my teeth and raised my eyebrows at my mother, as if to say, See? Even your husband agrees with me.
She relented, but it was the last time. Ever.
I was in the middle of a blazing hot desert, being shot at by hostiles regularly, and she turned up her nose because she wanted to fire my nanny.
If anyone asks why I have trust issues, hook your thumb in my mother’s direction. And then ask where my dad ended up, and see if anyone knows.
“Dalton,” Mrs. Paloma says now, putting her hand on mine.
I almost flinch. It’s been a while since someone has touched me like that. Like a mother.
“I should visit more often,” I say. “How are Sanchez and Amy?”
She smiles. “They’re good. Amy started college. Sanchez is working at a mechanic’s shop. The owner has taken him under his wing.”
“That’s good,” I say. “And… Mom?”
She scoffs. “Dalton Alexander Kavanaugh, do you not speak to your own mother?”
“Not if I can help it.” I laugh off her glare.
“She’s okay. Unhappy in her wealth, as most women her age and status are. Constantly looking for things to redeem herself.”
