"I thought I'd leave that to you," Quin said, waving a hand.
"Alright," I said, giving her the same eye-contact she was giving me, knowing mine was unnerving, so it said something that she could hold it. "Tonight, you will stay here. Upstairs. We have rooms for clients. While you do that, I will draw up a plan. You get no say in where you end up. Kick, scream, bite, scratch, but it won't change dick. Your life is in my hands until you're settled. Then you are on your own. But, if you sign the papers that Jules is no doubt drawing up right now, get ready to never get your own way again."
"If something happened," she said, tone still so damn composed. Especially considering she'd just been stabbed half a day ago. "Down the line. In the future. If he finds me..."
"He won't." They never did. I was good. Case closed.
"If he does," she tried again. "Can I still come to you for help?"
"Of course," Quin answered, drawing her attention back to him. "If, by some insane chance, he finds you. You can call us. We will send someone - whoever is closest to you from our team at any given time - right over to pick you up. Then the process begins all over again."
"How many times has that had to happen?"
"None," I answered, tone final.
"Out of how many cases?" she pressed, clearly having trust issues about it. And, well, if three of the best private security firms in the city failed you, I guess I could see that.
"Sixty-three. Since I've worked here. More on my own."
"And no one has ever been found."
"No one has ever been found," I confirmed.
"Okay," she agreed, giving Quin a nod.
He reached for the button to Jules's desk, and not a minute later, in she walked with the papers, hanging back to wait for them to be signed.
"Jules, can you show Miss Blythe-Meuller to one of the rooms upstairs? Gunner and I need to discuss some things," he added as Sloane jumped up out of her chair, clearly eager to get away. And, it seemed, mostly from me.
Which was unfortunate for her.
She was about to have a whole fuckuva lot of me in her life.
"Try to play nice," Quin told me when we were alone.
"With Miss Blythe-Meuller?" I shot back, smirking.
And while he was the boss, and wore that professional persona well, once we were alone, he let out a laugh at that as well.
"Yes, with Miss Blythe-Meuller. Give her a break. She's had a rough go of it. You could try to be less of a dick."
"Being a dick is why you pay me the big bucks," I said, taking my paperwork to go look over in my own office.
I had this distinct feeling that Miss Blythe-Meuller was not the kind of woman who was going to play nice herself.
So I had no intentions of doing so either.
TWO
Sloane
"You're not going to tell me it is going to be alright?" I asked after the redhead with the great skirt and killer heels led me around the building, then up a staircase in the back to a second floor.
"I figure this is likely the worst day of your life," she said, shrugging a slight shoulder as she punched in a code on the alarm system, then pulled open the door. "I don't imagine fake platitudes are going to make you feel any better."
I liked that.
The honesty there.
It helped.
To stay focused. To move forward. To make sure I didn't harp on it.
Everything I was losing.
Everything I had worked so damn hard for.
"This is the common area," Jules explained, waving toward the couch, armchairs, coffee table, television, and a lush gray carpet. "There is a small kitchenette," she went on, clearly the person who had given the spiel many times before. I wondered a bit fleetingly how many women had been in a similar circumstance as me. Having a situation beyond their control get so dangerous that they have to leave everything they know and love behind. "Help yourself to anything in the fridge or cabinets. Coffee. Whatever you might need. And down here are the rooms," she went on, her heels clicking on the dark floor as she went down a hall with doors flanking either side.
"Is anyone else staying right now?" I asked, having the selfish desire to be alone.
"You lucked out. Or, depending on how you feel, pulled the short straw. There's no one staying right now."
"Good," I agreed with a nod. "Closest to the common room, or furthest?" she asked, waving at the doors, ten in all.
"End," I decided, figuring it was the furthest away from people if they happened up, the most private.
"Alright. Well, here we go," she said, leading me to the left. "There is a bed, closet, and a small private bath. I will have someone bring your bags up. Settle in. Try to get some sleep. Gunner will likely be coming for you early in the morning."
With that, she opened the door for me, then turned and walked away. Professional. Efficient. A bit standoffish. I would have hired her in a heartbeat too.
"Thank you," I remembered to call before she was too far to hear me.
With that, I let myself into the room, finding it bare, but not completely uncomfortable. The bed was a full-size with a sturdy black wood frame, white bedding, and half a dozen pillows. There was a nightstand with a lamp, a stack of magazines, and the remotes for the TV that was above the dresser across from the bed.
I moved across the floor, pulling open the door to the bathroom, doing so with a swirling sensation in my stomach that I had never felt before, it likely being the product of my recent shower incident.
Incident.
That was a good way to think of it.
An 'incident' was easy to compartmentalize, tuck away, convince yourself it wasn't a big deal.
That was what I needed to do. So I could keep it together. So my mind didn't keep going back to being in the shower, to being naked, vulnerable, then have a man rip open the door, and plunge something sharp into your abdomen, the pain immediate and searing, whiting out your vision, making your insides revolt, the bile rising up even as you tried to scream.
I shook my head, trying to get the thoughts to settle back in their hiding place. To be dealt with when things were more settled.
I moved my gaze away from the compact shower stall, suddenly understanding why Janet Leigh from Psycho could never shower again after she filmed that movie.
Moving over toward the sink, I took a deep breath, and looked myself in the eye.
You couldn't see it there.
The despair.
The horror.
The desperation.
The rage.
I had schooled my poker face after getting yelled at on my first job at sixteen when I had humiliated myself by crying in front of everyone around me. I had vowed to myself never to let that happen again, never to let someone see what was going on inside.
I'd gotten good at it over the years.
Not even now, when my entire universe was crumbling at my feet, could you tell I was anything other than in-control. Composed. Confident.
It was all a show, of course.
I was all ashes and ruins inside.
In just under forty-eight hours, a dozen men and women would walk up to a storefront dressed up because that was what I had always demanded, standing there checking their cells, brows furrowed. Because I never made them wait for me. I always showed up before everyone, unlocked the door, got to work.
If I knew my crew - and I did - Mateo would be the one who would finally crack and call me. Once. Twice. Ten times. Then he would send everyone home. He didn't have the power, but if I wasn't there, he had seniority. He would take charge. Then he would go to my place. He'd find a way in, despite the doorman and apartment he didn't have a key to. Then he would realize I was gone. Maybe he would realize a lot of my things were missing. Or maybe not. A lot of clothing and bath accessories were still left. He'd report me missing.
Then they would all realize after a few days that their lives had changed as well.
Suddenly.
Startlingly.
No notice.
No severance.
I had screwed them all over.
It didn't matter that I didn't intend to.
It didn't matter that the choice was taken from me.
These were my people.
I had promised them things. I had assured them that there was stability in my company, that they could entrust their future to me.
I didn't take that responsibility lightly.
It was killing me to do this to them, to throw their lives into turmoil with me.
Could they even collect unemployment?
With a missing CEO?
I doubted that a single one of them would even file. They were the hungry types, eager to prove themselves, refusing to have a gap in their resumes. They'd likely be working somewhere else by the end of the week.
I'd lose them all.
I mean, I would lose them all no matter what.
That was what was happening.
That life was over.
I was over.
"No," I said to myself, taking a deep breath as I sat off the end of the bed, knowing that when I heard myself say things, they felt more convincing. "That me is over," I amended.
This was what most people had private, never-spoken-of dreams about. Running away from their old lives. Their spouses, kids, mortgage, car payments, bosses, jobs, families. And start over. Do it right. Be the person you always knew you were deep down inside, but life wouldn't allow you to become.
The only problem with that was, that wasn't my dream. My dream, my ultimate dream, was the life I had built for myself back in the city. With my job, my people, the apartment I had filled with things that made me feel happy and proud of myself.
I loved my life.
I had put all of myself into it.
It meant everything to me.
But now it was gone.
It was gone.
And I had to become someone new.
Someone that bearded brute downstairs would tell me to be. Which was likely the scariest part of this all. Not the men after me with guns and knives. Not never being able to do what I loved again.
Putting myself fully in that man's wide, scarred, tattooed hands.
Of all people.
To be perfectly honest, when I had met Quinton Baird, I had breathed a sigh of relief. He was calm, collected, professional, in charge. I respected that. Sure, he tended to emphasize things with more colorful language than I cared for, but I could see a bit of myself in him. I knew he would at least find me a new life where I could maybe still work in a similar industry. Live in a place that I didn't have to worry about.
Then he told me that he wasn't in charge of my particular kind of case.
Oh, no.
That belonged to someone they called The Ghost.
Because he, I don't know, was one or something.
And that that Ghost was named Gunner.
In my experience, I hadn't met a lot of men in professional positions with names like street fighters.
I had maybe built up an idea of him in my head while we waited for him to show.
For the most part, he'd lived up to the image too.
Except, well, better looking.
Much better looking.
I could never claim to go for his type. The rough-around-the-edges type. The kind of man who looked like he could change the oil on his car and mowed his own lawn. The kind who had beers with buddies on the weekend. Who maybe hiked or jumped out of planes for fun.
Polished had always been my type.
Suits, clean shaves, cologne, statement watches, good taste in wine, ambition, and maybe spent their free time reading books about finance or business.
But even if he wasn't my type, I could appreciate the appeal there. He was six-foot-three or four, towering, even over me in my heels. He had the width to go with it as well - shoulders like a linebacker, solid and firm down the center. His arms, though covered in tattoos, looked, well, bulging. Like a bodybuilder. Like a man who spent a lot of time cultivating them. I'd bet the rest of his body matched.
His hair was between blond and brown, dirty, I guess the shade would be called. Dirty blond. And his beard matched. He kept it full but groomed, and it somehow perfectly matched his rugged features.
The green eyes were surprising.
It was a silly thing to think, but I always figured tough guys had dark eyes. Maybe that was how I had always seen it in films.
But he didn't have dark eyes.
He had light green ones.
Gorgeous, really.
Even if the brows over them were prone to snarky raises and lowers.
His voice when he spoke was rough, a little surly. Alright, a lot surly.
For whatever reason, he seemed to dislike me on sight too. Why? I had no idea. I couldn't claim to be anyone's Miss Congeniality, but I had never had someone seem to dislike me entirely before even speaking to me.
Then again, maybe he was just one of those people. The ones who don't like anyone. The ones who didn't really see you as a person, just thought of you as a job, a responsibility, body parts he had to make sure didn't get severed or shot.
Maybe it wasn't personal.
That duchess remark, though, that had seemed somewhat pointed.
Then again, men were prone to those little terms, weren't they?
Baby, doll, angel.
Maybe that was just his chosen one.
Duchess.
Hell, it was a compliment of sorts, wasn't it? Who wouldn't want to be a duchess?
Tea parties, charity events, lavish engagements.
A huge step up from the hellhole I was raised in.
Yep, that was another thing that needed to stay tightly tucked in its little box in its specific compartment. To be dealt with never.
Somehow not understanding that now was not the time for things like basic human needs, my stomach that had been painfully empty since, well, before my shower last night, I guess, let out a loud objection. My hand moved down instinctively, pressing in.
Making me hiss out my breath as my fingers pressed into the stitches I wasn't used to having yet.
Stitches.
I'd been worried I would sound too vain to ask the doctor if they would scar. But one look at that ugly black thread and the way it made my skin pucker really gave me all the answer I needed.
I'd been given painkillers that I had filled before I knew I had to drop off the map. I'd taken one before walking into Quinton Baird and Associates. I figured if I dulled the pain, I would be able to think more clearly.
It did hurt.
I wanted to be strong enough to say it didn't, but it did, a dull, throbbing ache even at rest, then a sharp, searing when I tried to twist or move too quickly.
Time.
That was what the doctor said.
I needed time.
I guess I had nothing but it now.
Waiting for the pain to settle back down to a throb, I slowly got to my feet, moving into the hall, then back down toward the kitchen, popping a pod into the Keurig before going to the fridge in search of something to eat.
Surprisingly, since no one was currently staying here, it was well-stocked with various fruits and snacks, eggs, milk, and a pre-cut salad.
I reached for the salad, taking it and the coffee over to the couch. Even though it chafed to eat in front of a TV, reminding me of a life I had left far behind me.
But, just this once, I would allow it.
My mind could use the distraction.
And this space was so quiet.
By the time I picked a show and had finished the salad, there was a distinct beeping sound outside the door - someone punching in the security code.
I straightened a little, feeling oddly guilty for drinking coffee on their couch even though it was clearly the only space meant for sitting in the main area.
"Coming in," a voice called, deep and smooth. With none of the edge that Gunner's voice had.
Oddly, that made me tense
more.
I would have thought not seeing him again would be a relief.
"I'm Smith," the man said as soon as he pushed the door open, doing so with his foot because he was bogged down with a ton of my bags - across his shoulders, in his hands, hanging off his arms.
"Sloane. Blythe-Meuller," I added, thinking suddenly how hard it was going to be to give that up. My name. My brand. My identity.
"Got some of your stuff for you, Sloane," he said, dropping the formality his boss and co-worker had continued to use for some reason. "Figured you might have something in here to help keep you occupied. I know that TV isn't for everyone."
"Thank you. I really appreciate it." I also appreciated the fact that he didn't seem to be holding back smirks or sneers like the others seemed to do.
"Don't mention it. You alright? Settling in?" he asked, moving to pile all my things against the front wall where the windows to the street below were situated.
"Yes. Everything is well-planned-out here," I said, taking my takeaway salad platter back to the kitchen area to dispose of it.
"We use it for clients, but sometimes we need to crash here if we pushed ourselves too hard to drive home," Smith told me, giving me a nod. "I will bring the rest of your things up. Do you want me to grab you anything else? Food? Take-away menus for dinner?"
"I think I will be alright, thanks."
"You're Gunner's case, right?" he asked.
"Yes, The Ghost, or so he is called," I agreed, turning to face him slightly.
"He's earned the title," Smith told me, tone reassuring.
"May I ask your title?"
"The General," he offered right away, not even hesitating.
The General.
I guess that made sense.
He had a certain... ex-military air about him. It was in his posture, his confidence, the way he seemed to be taking everything in at once.
"I know you don't know me from Adam, but trust me, hon, you wouldn't want anyone else handling this for you. He might have the temperament of a dog who hasn't been fed in a week at times, but he knows what he is doing. He will get you safe."
"Thank you. It's good to hear that from someone other than the man who employs him," I admitted, giving him a small smile.
The Ghost Page 2
