I feel sick.
“You alert enough to go to the grocery store?”
I startle at the question, the first thing Nick’s said since we left Bangkok. “I think so. Why?”
He slides a glance at me. “I need to run through my security feeds, check in with Constantine and my father, then I need to crash. There’s no food in the house, though. If you feel up to it, you can take the car and go to the store. Otherwise, order what you think we’ll need and have it delivered.”
The store. The beach. I could go to the beach for a little while, kick some sand around, berate myself some more. It’d give us some time apart, and if I dawdle long enough, he might be asleep by the time I get home, and I’d have more time to work through my tangled mess of thoughts. Plus, he needs sleep. He looks awful, his hair rumpled, faint lines bracketing his mouth, his eyes bloodshot.
He flinches as I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips, but I don’t pull away. It’s like having to learn him all over again, this hard and soft man, figure out where he puts that ruthless part of him so I know not to poke it with a stick. Some of the tension leaves him as I rub my fingers along his skin.
“Almost home,” he murmurs.
Home. I drop my hand. I’d forgotten I’m basically homeless, and his comment brings it screaming to the forefront. As long as I’m with him, I have a place to stay, but it’s not the same as home.
I wonder if he understands the difference.
We ease into the driveway and climb out of the car, the cooler Santa Monica air freezing compared to the tropical heat of Thailand. It perks me up a bit, stripping away the top coat of travel fatigue, and I grab my bags and follow him through the front door.
Inside, I hesitate in the hallway leading to the bedrooms. There’s a guest room at the end of the hall. Will Nick want to share a bed with me? Better question, do I still want to share a bed with him? Our last night in Phuket wasn’t exactly blissful, the tension between us so intense he actually got up at one point and left.
I found him sitting on the front steps, forearms braced on his knees. We watched the sky lighten with the coming day, the water in front of us populating with early fishing boats, then packed up the rest of our stuff and headed for the airport.
If I use that as my indicator of what I should do, it pretty much screams nope nope nope.
Casting a longing glance at Nick’s king-size bed as I pass the master bedroom, I carry my bags into the guest room and dump them on the floor. I skip unpacking and dig around until I find clean clothes and my shower gear.
Fifteen minutes later I’m clean, dressed, and ready to drive to the grocery store. I pause at the doorway to Nick’s room as I make my way down the hall. There’s no sign of him there or in the bathroom, so I keep looking.
He’s in a small room off the living room, a place I haven’t been before. It’s crammed with tech gear, much like the second bedroom at his condo in Manhattan Beach, monitors taking up most of the available surfaces, cables and wires snaking along baseboards and across the floor. Black and white pictures are frozen on most of the monitors, and he’s fast forwarding through something on the monitor directly in front of him.
“Hey.” He spins his chair toward me, and I manage a half smile. “I think I’ll take you up on your offer of the car. Where are your keys?”
He fishes them out of his pocket and tosses them to me. “You need cash?”
I shake my head. “I’m good. Want anything special?”
“An IV drip of coffee.”
“Can’t help you there.” I look past him to the picture frozen on the screen. “Are you looking for anything particular?”
He turns back to the monitor and restarts the image. “Routine check. Usual prowlers. Neighbor’s cat’s been using one of the back flower beds as a litter box again. Need to move the cameras around this weekend and do a software upgrade.”
“Sounds exciting.” The keys dig into my palm, the metal teeth cutting into the soft flesh. I hate this distance between us. I hate it even more knowing I’m the one who caused it.
Worst of all, I hate that I’m trying to justify what he’s done so I don’t push him away.
We’ll never get anywhere if we don’t talk, and it’s my responsibility to open those lines. “Nick?”
“Yeah?”
I rest a hand on his shoulder, inching around until my butt runs into the edge of the desk. The warm, silky weight of his hair on my fingers doesn’t distract me from noticing he’s gone stiff with tension. I’m not running, though. I broke this; I’m going to fix it, dammit, one baby step at a time.
The words won’t come. I’m not ready to apologize. I don’t know I have anything to apologize for. But I don’t want to just walk out of here without doing something.
I bend down and press my mouth to his, and after a paralyzing second he responds, lips moving in those minute adjustments we learned all those weeks ago, a fraction here, a smidge there, and then he parts his lips and his tongue slips out, a delicate probe requesting entry. The next thing I know I’m on his lap, the keys are on the floor, and my fingers are tangled in his hair.
When I kissed him, I didn’t mean for it to end up like this, all heat and need and fierceness. I wanted to reopen the circuits, not fry them completely.
The brush of his fingers along my spine makes me whimper and squirm, and I tear my mouth away, gasping. “Crap. Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
He slips his hand under my shirt, stroking up my back to rest between my shoulder blades. “Glad it did.” His eyes have lost their glaze of fatigue, replaced by a healthy serving of lust. Nice to know some things haven’t changed.
I slide my hands from his hair down to his face, cupping it. “I’m sorry about the other night and how I reacted.”
He arches a brow. “You are the one who convinced me we weren’t all that different.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I want to tell you it shouldn’t be any different when I’m provided with evidence of that, but thinking you’re just as ruthless as I am and knowing it are two separate things.”
“I wasn’t lying. Women and children are an absolute last resort. If a wife or son is used to set an example, the entire organization knows damn well the offense was serious.” He glides his hand down and stops just above my butt. “You’re not as ruthless as you think you are. You compartmentalize everything, you shut off when you have to, and you’re not afraid to get your hands bloody if that’s what’s necessary. But you want out of the game. I don’t. This is my life, Cass. This is what I do. And I don’t have any plans to change that.”
Hearing it tears into a little fantasy I didn’t know I had. He’d dismantle the organization or turn it over to Constantine, and he’d be content to expand his tech empire. The pieces of it start to flutter away, the whole of the picture growing more tattered by the minute.
The words tumble out before I have a chance to stop them. “Would you use me? If I stand by my decision to stop, would you try to sweet talk me into taking on one more job?”
The stiffness returns, his body granite. “If I did?”
More pieces float off, and a fierce ache develops low in my throat, my nose tingling. “I’d leave because it would be pretty fucking clear you didn’t respect me enough.”
He drops his hands to my hips, all the warmth in his face gone. In its place is the mask of the cool, hard man who runs the city’s largest crime family. “Respect’s a two-way street.” He nudges me from his lap. “Have enough for me to support your choice.”
Shame burns in my chest. I should have kept my mouth shut, gone to the store, and put this conversation off until tomorrow when we were both rested and capable of carrying on intelligent conversation.
Not once has he indicated he thinks I should stay in the game. All he asked was I hold it together and live with my guilt until this is over.
I swallow against the ache, fisting my hands hard enough my nails
dig into my palms. “I do.”
I scoop up the keys and hurry from the room, eager to get away from Nick and the falling line of dominos. The rapidly fading light has turned the sky purple, and I stare at it, blinking to keep the tears from forming. Repairing the damage I’ve caused will be harder than I thought.
Headlights flash when I punch the button to unlock Nick’s car. I climb in and adjust the seat, breathing through the momentary surge of panic. I’ve never driven anything this nice. With my luck today, I’ll probably end up scratching it.
Annoyed, I huff out a breath and start the car. Nick’s obviously not worried about damage if he’s letting me drive it, so I shouldn’t, either.
At the end of the block, I glance to my right where the beach is. It would be deserted, most likely, this late and this cold.
I’m also too fucking tired to stay up much longer. I might have scored some sleep on the plane, but it’ll only keep me awake for a couple of hours at the most.
The store’s crowded with after-work shoppers, and I have to dodge more than one small child as I make my way up and down the aisles, filling the cart. The trip takes less than an hour, and all too soon I’m pulling into the driveway, full dark only minutes away. The light in the living room is off, the front of the house barely illuminated by the light over the front door.
It’s quiet when I enter. Nick’s not in his office. I tiptoe down the hall and inch open the door to his bedroom. He’s sprawled on his stomach, face smashed into his pillow, broad shoulders bared because the sheets have migrated halfway down his back. Need for him rises, warm and sweet, and I shove it aside. Tomorrow. We’ll straighten it out tomorrow. We’ve gone through too much to let miscommunications push us apart. I slip inside his room and pull the blankets up, then head for the kitchen to deal with the groceries.
The dark’s soothing. These shadows are friendly, and they wrap around me as I move through the kitchen, guided by the dim light over the stove. He left one of the dining room windows open to chase out the stale air, and I make a mental note to close it before I go to bed.
The night’s so quiet the crack of a foot stepping on a downed branch is like a clap of thunder, jump-inducing. Without thinking, I free one of the knives from the block on the counter, testing its weight. Slightly better than my own kitchen knife. It’ll have to do.
Aside from the sliding doors in the dining room, there’s a second door off the kitchen that opens onto the backyard. The kitchen island’s perpendicular to the door, providing me with the only hiding spot in the room. I don’t want to wake Nick until I have to, so I crouch behind the kitchen island, ears straining to hear what’s going on outside. The doorknob rattles slightly, metal clinking off metal, and I roll my eyes.
Someone’s picking the lock. Stupid human, breaking into the house of a mafiaso.
As long as I stay where I am, I won’t be seen once the idiot enters the kitchen, and I might stand a chance of catching him off-guard. If I’m really lucky, he’ll give up and leave us alone, and I won’t have to wake Nick at all.
I don’t get lucky. The knob rattles again as it twists, the door opening with a slight click. I breathe out, breathe in, lock everything inside, and shift my grip on the knife, letting the cold emptiness take over.
Soft footfalls come closer to my hiding spot, and I focus on the patch of floor where he’ll pass by. His approach drags on for a century, each beat of my heart loud enough I swear he has to hear it. My legs are going numb. When his foot comes into view, I press back against the island, muscles tensed to spring.
It takes me all of two seconds to register that this man is not here on a social call. The silencer he’s screwing on to the barrel of his gun is a pretty big fucking clue. He passes, and I jump up, launch myself at his back, and sling an arm across his chest. The blade slices through the skin of his throat in a rough tug tug tug, like the teeth of a serrated knife. Hot blood drips onto my hand, and he flails around, dropping the gun to the floor.
I let go and sidestep him, scooping up the gun as I do. He goes to his knees, hatred gleaming in his eyes before they glaze over and he lands face first on the tile.
I place the knife and the gun on the counter and step around the island to wash my hands. There’s some blood on the cuffs of my hoodie, which sucks because it’s my favorite sweatshirt, perfectly broken in, and unless I can get the blood out, I’ll have to burn it. And blood never comes out.
Nick’s still sound asleep in the same position he was in when I checked on him the first time. Waking him is going to suck, hardcore. At least I won’t have to do it with bloody hands.
I shake him until he pries open an eye. “What?” he mumbles.
“How do you get blood stains out of ceramic tile?”
Chapter 3
Nick takes in the pool of blood on his kitchen floor and scrubs a hand over his face, pulling his jaw down in the process. “Shit. Didn’t think about setting the alarm.”
“You were dead to the world when I came in. You probably fell asleep as soon as your head was on the pillow.” He’d pulled on a pair of sweats after I woke him, but not before I got a good look at his naked ass. It was enough to temporarily jostle me from my numbed state.
Seeing the dead body lying on his kitchen floor pushes the images of naked Nick into the recesses of my brain where they belong.
I crouch next to the body, nose twitching at the sickeningly sweet tang of blood. “I’m not much use at this part. I always leave the bodies to be found. Of course, in a perfect world, he wouldn’t have gotten into the house in the first place.”
Nick shoots me a look. “Why did you let him in?”
“There was no letting. He picked the lock. He’d probably have shot me on sight if I’d made my presence known, and I’m not exactly excited about the prospect of adding to my collection of scars. Waiting to see what he’d do seemed like the best option.” I stand and poke the body with my toe. “What do we do?”
He stares at the dead man on the floor for a while longer, then turns around and pads out of the kitchen. The blood’s stopped spreading, but it really will be a bitch to get out of the tile if it’s there much longer. Of course, Nick can afford to have the floors redone if he wants.
Maybe he should replace the locks while he’s at it.
Thirty minutes later, there’s a crew of four men in the kitchen, all bearing black duffle bags. They greet Nick with silent nods and don surgical scrubs, down to pairs of papery-cloth booties over their shoes. One of them pulls a hacksaw from his bag, another a pair of scissors. They flip him onto his back, the tarp crinkling under his weight.
His eyes are open. Sightless, blank, dark. Hard to believe he’d glared at me only moments ago. The wound isn’t the neatest one I’ve ever made, either, the edges ragged and gaping. The guy with the scissors begins cutting away his clothing, baring his skin to the harsh kitchen light. In the short time between when he bled out and now, he’s gone waxy.
I imagine most women, no, most people, would have left by the point they’ve reached now, hacksaw poised above the ankle. I’ve never had any real desire to find out how you’d take a body apart for easy transport, yet I can’t stop watching. Is it necessary to cut off the feet? What about the hands? If the torso’s big, like his, do you split it in half, just under the ribs?
Nick wraps an arm around my shoulders and steers me from the room. “You don’t need to watch.”
I nod. He’s right. Those are pictures I don’t need running through my brain. “What happens next?”
He stops at the door to the guest room. “You change your clothes. I’ll need your pants and sweatshirt. They’ll take care of disposal when they leave.”
“Can I borrow your keys again?” I unzip the hoodie and hand it over.
“No beach tonight, Cass. I don’t want you leaving the house alone.”
I pause in the act of unbuttoning my pants. “Did I or did I not just take down the intruder by myself?”
I toe off my shoes and strip off my jeans, leaving me in a T-shirt and panties. Unfortunately, Nick’s point is valid. Anyone who has the forethought to plan something like this, knowing we’d be vulnerable from fatigue, won’t leave anything to chance.
He gives me one last long look, then turns on his heel and strides down the hall to the kitchen.
Despite having already taken a shower, I head for the bathroom anyway, hoping to salvage at least part of the ritual. I pile my hair on top of my head, flip on the tap, and step under the spray, shutting my eyes as the hot water hits my skin.
It’s not the same. I keep running different scenarios to find a better way I could have achieved the same results. I can’t turn off Cass the Assassin. She’s in full control, and after several minutes of standing there, hot water streaming down my body, I resign myself to dealing with it tomorrow.
This time around, the water makes me sleepy, the warmth seeping into my bones and softening them. I soap up, scrubbing beneath my fingernails, just in case, and rinse away the film of death coating me.
Curiosity takes me from the bathroom to the kitchen instead of the guest room, where I’m sure Nick prefers I’d stay. Dark red blood pools on the tarp. The body is missing its arms up to the elbows and legs up to the knees. Two men are working on opposite ends with hacksaws while the other two hold a murmured conversation, cradling bottles of water.
Seeing them engaging in such normal activity is more disturbing than the dead body missing limbs.
Game of Vengeance Page 2
