As a teenager, the fear of getting caught sneaking out spurred me on. Now, it terrified me. One false move, one wrong turn, one second of bad timing, and Cohen would take my son away from me forever.
I wished desperately that Painter was with me. The clock flipped again. 12:01.
“C’mon,” I muttered at myself. “You were fine before he walked into your life.”
Except I didn’t want to be fine without him. In fact, I didn’t want to be without him at all.
I want to save him as much as I want to save Jayme.
My need for Painter hit me square in the chest. I had to get my son. Then I had to get the man I’d fallen in love with, even if it was just so I could tell him the truth about Jayme’s father. He deserved an explanation.
And maybe he’ll have one for me, as well, I couldn’t help but think. I tossed my blankets aside and forced my feet to the cold, wood floor. I shivered. I hated that bare feet were a necessity. But when it was a choice between bare feet and heels…the former were definitely better for stealth. I grabbed the wall-mounted bookshelf just above my old desk and used it to steady myself as I climbed onto my nightstand. Being careful not to place anything too close to the edge, I moved my heavy collection of classic literature from the middle of the shelf to the outside. The movement exposed the false vent hidden there. It looked much smaller than I remembered, and for moment, I wondered if I would still fit through it.
Won’t know unless you try, I told myself.
I wiggled the cover free, set it down and took a breath. Then, with far less nimbleness than I’d had as a teenager, I placed a knee on the desk. My first push-off didn’t give me enough leverage, and the nightstand teetered underneath me. A second attempt went even worse than the first, and I was sure that the nightstand was going to topple over and bring Cohen’s men running. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead as I waited for the piece of furniture to go still beneath my foot.
You can do this.
I tried again, this time placing my hands inside the vent to give me some pull power, too. My muscles ached, but eighteen months of dancing had given me the strength I needed. With a low grunt, I brought the top half of my body up and dragged myself inside. Claustrophobia swamped me, and I made myself focus on thoughts of Jayme. It was enough to keep me going.
I slid into the wall. On the other side of the vent cover, the opening widened into a passageway that snaked through the entire house. I didn’t know if the secret tunnel was built as an escape route, or as a means of delivering liquor during prohibition times, and as a teenager, I’d never cared. I’d first discovered it when I was thirteen and I’d accidentally knocked the cover loose with a basketball. It had fast become a means to an end—a way of going behind my benefactor’s rules—but I’d never given too much thought to whoever had built it in the first place. At that moment, though, I truly wished I knew, just so I could thank them. Because I’d never been so thankful for something in my life.
Quickly, I turned myself around and slid back toward the vent opening. I pulled the cover sideway and angled it just inside the wall, then dragged the books back into their place on the shelf. Finally, I pushed the cover back in place.
If Cohen’s men did come back into my room before I managed to get Jayme and myself out, they’d never know how I got out.
I leaped to the floor inside the wall, landing softly
Time to get Jayme.
My memory was automatic, and I felt my way through the dark quickly.
Right. Left. Eighteen steps. Right again.
I made a final sharp left and had to bite down on my lip hard to keep from screaming as I slammed my back against something.
Shit!
Too late, I realized that in spite of the solidity of what I’d hit, it was distinctly human. I flailed as I tried to spin and fend off my attacker.
Oh, God!
It was a useless fight. Strong arms closed around my shoulders and held me in place, while thick hands covered my mouth. I struggled to move, but couldn’t. Finally, in a last ditch effort to free myself, my teeth clamped down on the soft flesh of my captor’s palm.
His sharp intake of breath and muttered curse as he released me was familiar.
Painter.
This time when I spun, it was with an eagerness I couldn’t contain. I dove into him. My hands travelled across his shoulders and up his neck and dug into his hair. I stood on my tiptoes and pulled his lips to mine, kissing him not as thoroughly as I wanted to, but as thoroughly as time and circumstance would allow. When I finally released him, I remembered how we’d left each other and I was glad it was dark enough to cover my flaming face.
“Polly?”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Trying to get away. I used to sneak through here when I was a teenager and I lived with Cohen.”
Painter’s palms sought and found my face while his mouth landed on mine again. His kiss was more gentle than mine, and more cautious.
“It was you,” he murmured against my lips.
“What was me?”
“In the car that night. The one he told me I killed.”
The world spun.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
But it did.
It made perfect sense. I finally pushed the last, elusive puzzle piece in place.
“The truck,” I stated.
It was the last thing I remembered clearly on the night that I died to everyone but Jayme and me.
Nerves had made me drive faster than I should have been going, faster than Howell would want me to.
Up, up the hill to the place we’d arranged to meet, to the place we’d picked to end my life. I was sketchy on the details and that was okay with me. I knew Howell had used connections from the morgue and other than that I was ignorant of the details. There would be a fire and there would be a body and that was all I needed.
I shivered, not wanting to think too much on what it all meant other than my own freedom.
I rounded the corner in Cohen’s flashy car.
And saw the truck.
The baby!
It was my only thought as I realized the inevitable. I put my hand on my stomach and closed my eyes, swerved and hoped for the best.
“I thought you were dead. I really thought I did it.” Painter’s voice carried the burden of his belief. “Six years, he let me think it. Even Howell never told me.”
I needed to ease his pain. “Painter, I have to tell you something else.”
He grabbed my hand. “Later. We need to get Jayme. Now.”
Before I could spit out the truth, we were moving through the walls again. Left, left, right.
“If I calculated right, this is it,” Painter announced in a hushed voice.
“The guest suite,” I replied.
I reached past Painter’s shoulder and grabbed the hidden door handle and twisted it open, revealing the recesses of a wide closet. As we stepped through, Painter held a protective arm in front of me. But when my eyes scanned the room and found the bed empty, I pushed him aside.
“Jayme’s not here,” I hissed.
“But he was.” Painter pointed to the tangled sheets.
“Yes, he was.”
We both spun at the sound of Cohen’s voice.
The sight of Jayme pressed into Cohen’s chest, small and shaking, was like every nightmare I’d had over the past six years come to life.
To the casual observer, it might have looked like it was an embrace, but I knew my son. The too-still way he held himself was indicative of the fear he refused to show. I’d seen the same blank look on his face last year when we’d been separated for two minutes in the mall, and when he’d had to have his kindergarten shots.
“He had a nightmare,” Cohen offered. “And went looking for you. But you weren’t in your room, were you?”
“I’m here now,” I replied. “Give him to me.”
“I don’t t
hink so.”
“C’mon, Cohen,” Painter cajoled.
Cohen gave him a cool stare. “Didn’t I pay you to leave?”
Painter reached behind his back and pulled a gun from his waistband. “Not enough.”
“Clearly.” Cohen’s eyes sought me once more. “I take it from this little reunion that you figured things out.”
“You had to know we would,” Painter replied.
Cohen shrugged. “I hoped so. It gives me a good reason to get rid of both of you.”
“Give the kid to his mother.”
“He’s fine with his father.”
“He’s not yours,” I whispered.
No one responded. Cohen just maintained his grip on Jayme and kept his gaze focused on Painter. The gun in Painter’s hand was pointed—almost casually—in Cohen’s direction, and therefore by default in Jayme’s direction. My heart thrummed wildly in my chest and I cleared my throat.
“Jayme is not your son, Cohen,” I said, a little louder and a little firmer.
Cohen laughed. “You’re not going to lie your way out of this one, Nina.”
“It’s Polly,” I corrected coldly. “And I have no reason to lie.”
“Other than a desperate attempt to save yourself, of course. Get used to the idea of the kid calling me Daddy.”
Jayme’s sweet little face finally lifted from Cohen’s chest. His wide blue eyes fixed on the man holding him.
“My daddy died,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“Is that what she told you?” Cohen’s voice was tinged with that syrupy sweet tone used by people who aren’t used to being nice.
“That’s why we move a lot,” my son confirmed.
“Because it’s the truth,” I added.
“You’ve always been a manipulative bitch,” Cohen replied. “You’d say anything to save your own ass.”
“Whatever you think of her…denying you as the kid’s father wouldn’t save her.” Painter’s voice was quiet, but sure. “It would damn her.”
Cohen eyed him with disdain. “How do you figure?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Painter asked. “You’ve spent six years chasing down a hunch that she and the kid were alive. And you did it why? Solely because you believed Jayme was your son. You sure as hell don’t care about Polly beyond her value as a commodity. She told you what she needed to, when she needed to, to keep her family safe. But if he’s not your flesh and blood…how safe is Polly? How safe is either of them?”
Painter’s words made my throat dry. Everything he said was true, but hearing it out loud filled me with fear.
“You’re giving her more credit than she deserves,” Cohen sneered. “I said she was manipulative. Not that she was a whore. I had her watched every second of every day. If she’d fucked anyone other than me, even once, I’d have known.”
Painter flinched, and at first I thought it was a reaction to Cohen’s language in front of Jayme. Then I realized he wasn’t reacting to the word itself, but what it meant about Cohen and me. A denial bubbled to the surface, but the words wouldn’t come. Because sometimes not doing something is as bad as or worse than actually doing it. The expression on Painter’s face made my heart ache. And still he stood up for me.
“Every day, maybe. But what about at night? She showed me how she snuck out through the vents. That’s how we got here,” Painter said. “Did you know about that?”
Cohen looked doubtful for just a moment, but he covered it with another sneer.
“It doesn’t matter how slutty she was before I got to her,” he stated. “She was on twenty-four-hour surveillance after I knocked her up. Even while she slept.”
“But we were never together, Cohen. Not like that.”
At my words, he barked out a laugh. “I have a very good memory. And it includes you, naked and wrapped around my body.”
Painter’s face pinched again, and this time the explanation didn’t stick in my throat.
“How many times, Cohen?” I half whispered.
“What?”
“How many times do you have that memory?”
Cohen’s eyes sought Painter, and for the first time in my recollection, the man looked embarrassed.
“Don’t lie,” I said.
“Once,” he growled. “And that’s all it took.”
“Your memory is full of holes,” I said. “Let Jayme go, and I’ll tell you the truth.”
Cohen’s response was immediate. “No.”
“Please,” I begged.
Painter spoke up once more, this time cajoling. “Oh, c’mon, man. Are you saying you’d rather live in a fantasy world and become the butt of our jokes? Or the laughing stock to those men outside your door? Let the kid go to his mom, Cohen, and maybe you’ll actually have enough information to save a little face.”
“Nice fucking try.”
“I’ll give you the gun,” Painter offered.
Cohen tilted his head to one side and gave Painter a considering look. “You sound almost serious.”
“I am serious,” Painter told him, and there was nothing in his voice to indicate that he was lying.
“No!” I gasped.
Painter put a hand on my shoulder. “What do you feel better about? Cohen having a hold of Jayme? Or him having a hold of a gun?”
I couldn’t give him an honest answer. I sure as hell didn’t want to lose the only advantage we had over Cohen. Logically, I knew the gun was keeping us about as safe as we could be. But damned if I wanted Jayme in that man’s arms for another second.
“Neither,” I managed to get out.
Painter gave me a casual shrug. “That’s why I’m making this choice.”
My shoulders sagged. “Okay.”
Painter nodded at Cohen. “Do we have a deal?”
“I don’t suppose I can trust you to give it to me if I let the boy go first?” Cohen asked.
“I don’t suppose you can,” Painter agreed dryly.
“Hand it over then.”
Painter turned the weapon around in his palm and held it out, butt first. Bile rose in my throat as Cohen’s finger closed around it. He opened his arms and my son slid to the ground, then ran toward me. I folded him into a relieved embrace, and stifled a sob. Cohen tapped the gun on his chin.
“The truth,” he commanded. “Now.”
“Do you remember my eighteenth birthday?” I asked.
“Why would I?”
“Because three men got shot in your club that night. They were protecting you.”
Cohen’s mouth turned up in a cold grin that made my stomach churn. “Maybe I recall something.”
“Andy,” I snapped.
“Should that name mean something to me?”
“Damned right it should,” I muttered.
I fought to keep down my anger. I’d gotten over my survivor’s guilt a long time ago. If I hadn’t, I would never have been able to break free from Cohen in the first place. And it didn’t mean he didn’t deserve to be remembered.
“My daddy was named Andy, right?” Jayme’s voice carried up from where his head was pressed into my chest, calming me.
I smoothed back my son’s hair. “That’s right. Andy Jetter was your dad.”
Saying his name made my heart twist. But hearing it on Cohen’s lips was far worse.
“Jetter?”
“Yes.”
“I remember him. That halfwit with the freckles and the stupid fucking grin, right?”
“He was a nice guy with big heart,” I said. “Who never should’ve been working for you.”
“So nice that you had to—”
I cut him off. “You hired him to watch me, just like you hired all those other men. But Andy was only a year older than I was, and he was the only person who looked at me like I was something other than an inconvenience or a piece of furniture.”
“You loved him.”
I couldn’t quite pinpoint Cohen’s tone, and I didn’t want to. I just rested my chin on Jayme’s head a
nd took a breath.
“I liked him,” I corrected. “And he reminded me that there were still likeable people in the world.”
“How sweet,” Cohen replied sarcastically.
I ignored him. “I didn’t even get a chance to tell him I was pregnant. I’d known for about two hours. That’s when he got killed on your watch.”
“So you just decided…what? To seduce me?” He sounded genuinely amused, and I was glad that I was about to knock him down a peg.
“No.”
“Stop fucking around, Polly.”
I looked down at Jayme. His thumb was in his mouth, his eyes were closed, and I knew from his deep, even breath that he’d fallen asleep.
“I’m not fucking around, Cohen. I’m just taking my time so I get it right,” I replied. “You were pissed drunk that night. I remember thinking maybe you felt guilty because Andy and the others died during the shooting. But later someone told me you always get wasted when people around you die just so you don’t have to clean up your mess. I was an emotional disaster. I came in to see you, to confess everything that happened between me and Andy. You were barely able to talk, let alone make sense of what I told you. I was three seconds away from just turning around and leaving when you got mean. And aggressive. You dragged me to your bedroom. You got as far as ripping off my shirt and forcing me down before you passed out.”
Cohen’s face betrayed nothing. “You expect me to believe all of that?”
I offered a shrug, careful not to disturb Jayme. “You do remember waking up with me in your bed.”
“So fucking what?”
“You had no memory of my confession about Andy. And you assumed the worst about us. So I wondered…why not let you believe it? It was sure as hell a good punishment for you for everything you’d ever done to me. And for what you’d let happen to Andy and the others. You kicked me out that morning, but when I came back to you a month later, telling you I was pregnant, saying I’d never been with any man but you, I thought for sure you’d tell me to leave. Instead, you were pleased as punch because you wanted a baby. It made me sick. I wished I’d never tricked you. It was too late, though. If I’d told you the truth…” I paused and let the implication hang in the air.
“Why the hell would I want a baby?”
“You know why,” I replied. “Howell.”
Pinups and Possibilities Page 20
