Reckless Road

by Feehan, Christine

  “Baby, I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Player murmured. He slid his body off of hers, taking his weight. Taking his cock. Taking himself away from her. He knotted the condom so casually.

  She swallowed her distress. She was a grown woman. She made her choices and took responsibility for them. “No, the sex was awesome, Player.” She rolled off the other side of the bed, out of his reach, and caught up the blanket that was on the floor. Zyah wrapped the blanket around her shivering body. She was insane. Absolutely insane. Only Player could make her that way.

  “Zyah, what the fuck are you doing? Come back to bed.” Player sounded shocked.

  “Absolutely not.” She made every effort to be calm. Reasonable. Matter of fact. “We shouldn’t have been having sex. You were shot four weeks ago, and I know Steele healed you, but you’re still having migraines. I should have been watching out for you. We’re definitely not doing that again.”

  “We’re definitely doing that again.” Not only did he sound amused, he sounded arrogant and smug. “And you got rid of my migraine. I think sex gets rid of them.”

  She would have kicked him if she’d been close enough, but she wasn’t that silly. She had no willpower when it came to him. She couldn’t get close again. He had every reason to be arrogant, amused and smug. “Yes, I noticed you had condoms ready and waiting.” For some reason that hurt. It shouldn’t have. She should have been happy that he cared enough to protect her. She thought he was more worried about protecting himself. He definitely distanced himself from her when it came to anything but sex.

  “I’m going to take a bath.” She didn’t dare stay in the same room with him, not when he was looking at her with those tempting blue eyes.

  She was feeling weak and vulnerable. Before he could say anything, she wrapped the blanket tighter around herself and walked out. Behind her, she could hear him swearing, but she didn’t turn around—she didn’t dare because tears were burning in her eyes, and she wasn’t going to let him see how much it hurt to walk away from him.

  NINE

  Zyah stood just outside the door to the living room, listening to the sound of voices. Her grandmother’s laughter. She sounded young and worry free for the first time in the weeks since Zyah had been home. There was less pain in her voice. It was good to hear her sound so much more like herself. Player’s voice. Low. That tone that got to Zyah somewhere deep inside she couldn’t protect herself against. It was almost like she had some lock that kept everyone else out, but that tone penetrated like a key would, opening her up and making her very vulnerable to him.

  She’d worked every day for the last few days and come home, two members of Torpedo Ink escorting her openly. Player remained at the house recuperating, Maestro staying close or one of the others replacing him. She knew one or more club members were somewhere in the shadows watching over them as well. She was okay with that because if they were watching over Player, they were keeping her grandmother safe, and that left her to work in peace.

  Player. She heaved a sigh as she made the turn down the hallway to her bedroom. She wasn’t certain what she was going to do about him. Rubbing her fingertips along her jean-clad thigh she pushed open the door to her bedroom, where he had been staying since he’d been shot, and stopped just inside to inhale his masculine scent. He’d been there over a month now. A full five weeks. She didn’t know what she was going to do when he was gone.

  The room was always clean. Not just clean. Perfect. He kept the bed made. There wasn’t a wrinkle in the comforter. He was meticulous about the placement of the pillows on her bed, almost as if he’d taken a picture and knew the exact position she’d placed each of them in prior to his taking over the room. It was impossible because he’d been brought into her room unconscious, and he couldn’t know where she’d kept the silly pillows.

  She sighed as she looked around the room. Just because it was habit, and she needed comfort, she went to her grandfather’s drawing and stood in front of it for a short time, looking at the beautiful lines and whorls, the delicate strokes and heavy slashes he had so lovingly and painstakingly drawn for Anat.

  Instead of feeling comforted, her heart ached more when she looked at it. The large intricately carved frame, so original, so thoughtful and perfectly surrounding the drawing with such love from her father, all for Anat on their anniversary, had always brought Zyah joy. She felt the love radiating from the gift to her grandmother from her grandfather and father. She knew over the years she’d built that up. This drawing was one of the few things she had— concrete evidence her family had existed. Right now, as she pressed a kiss to the pads of her fingers and then to the frame her father had made, she felt lonelier and more disconnected than ever.

  She had always been a strong, confident woman, but she was losing that confidence in herself and in the gift that had been passed down from mother to daughter for hundreds of years. Zyah rubbed her temples, trying to clear her head. She was reluctant to join Player and Anat, knowing that if she did, Player wouldn’t laugh so much anymore. Like Zyah was when she was around him, Player was stilted when he was around her.

  It was different at night. She came in every night and took away the things that tried to spill out of his head. So many terrible memories haunting him, and with each one, he moved farther away from her. She detested that. She had become aware that part of the reason he distanced himself from her was that he detested her ability to see what had been done to him as a child. No man wanted a woman knowing he’d been repeatedly raped and abused, subjected to the worst kinds of torture. He might want her to think they were nightmares, but they both knew she was looking into his real childhood memories.

  She told herself a million times that she didn’t want him to think that the terrible things done to him made him unworthy of a relationship, but she knew it was so much more than what he considered the humiliation of her knowing about his childhood. There was much more to his past than that. More that she had caught glimpses of and he had tried to hide from her.

  The stark truth was, he had killed people. A lot of people. If the images in his head were anything to go by, he had done some pretty terrible things to them first. When the men had been waiting in her garage to kidnap her, he had gotten to her fast in spite of being wounded twice. And he’d hurt at least two of them pretty severely. One was very bad, and he’d done it with his bare hands.

  She’d been fighting off the two trying to drag her out of the garage. She had skills, and they weren’t trying to really hurt her—or kill her. That gave her an advantage Player didn’t have. She’d tried to warn him, but she hadn’t known there were so many in the garage lying in wait to try to kidnap her. For what? She had no idea what they were after. She had discussed it with her grandmother. The jewelry they’d had in the house was gone. The thieves had already taken it. What were they after?

  Zyah forced her mind back to the pertinent facts, the ones she hadn’t confided to her grandmother—or to anyone else. Player had already been shot, suffered a terrible brain injury, but even with that, even unable to see, he’d shot two men, just going off the sound of their voices. She saw them fall. They’d been dragged off by their friends, but they both were hurt, she could tell by the trail of blood left behind. Strangely, the garage, yard, sidewalk and asphalt didn’t show one speck of blood an hour later, when she went outside. How had that happened?

  Torpedo Ink had shown up. Player’s family. His brothers and sisters. They’d come to ensure he was safe. Steele had performed a miracle on him, and then stitched that deep groove that went nearly halfway around Player’s head before she had insisted he had to stay right there, that he couldn’t leave. Because she had that strange premonition she sometimes got that told her she needed to be somewhere or something had to be done. She had good instincts, and in this case, she knew had she not acted on them, Player wouldn’t have survived.

  She sank down onto the bed, gripping the wooden post, facing the window that overlooked the sea. It looked out over the grassy fie
ld and the bluffs, with the view of the ocean crashing over the rocks, throwing white foam into the air. Her life felt like it was spiraling out of control, when she’d always been completely in control. She’d thought that was her problem. Never once had she let loose. She hadn’t known how—until that first night with Player.

  Zyah had seen Anat working hard to get them out of debt and to provide a home for them. She had wanted to help her grandmother. From a very young age, she had begun to do whatever she could to contribute. That had given her a serious view on life. She had become disciplined and very focused on becoming financially sound for her grandmother and for her own future. She planned everything. Her job had allowed her to put her money in stocks and bonds. To put most of it toward retirement. She was even careful with her investments, not risking too much.

  There had been so many nights she’d dreamt of letting loose. Of having friends and a partner. She could be that person she knew was inside her, waiting to break loose. “Player.” She whispered his name aloud.

  This agony had to end soon for both of them. He wasn’t hurting because his heart ached for hers. Or his soul cried out for hers. He couldn’t take her knowing what had been done to him as a child. She didn’t blame him for that. But it still hurt when he stayed so distant from her. Since that night he’d initiated sex with her—and she wasn’t putting that responsibility on him, because she’d been all in—he’d grown even more distant. That really hurt.

  She knew that every minute spent with him at night, getting into his mind, connecting them together, made it that much more difficult for her to let go of him, and she was determined to see him through this. His injury was completely healed, yet his migraines had worsened, as had his nightmares. Steele couldn’t explain it. They’d discussed the problem at length.

  Every night, Player would have terrible relapses. The nightmares were so bad this last week that he’d gotten very little sleep. The illusions deepened until the reality they provoked grew stronger. She knew she would have to go back to the original Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland moment when he first brought out the characters for his Torpedo Ink brethren to amuse them. She needed to study that scene again.

  Zyah had known she’d been close to discovering something sinister, something only Player had been aware of in that room. She found it odd that even Czar, who seemed so sensitive to all of the other children and everything going on around him, wouldn’t notice that Player detested Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or that something wasn’t right in that horrible basement. But then, every one of those naked, brutalized children was freezing and starved.

  She hadn’t really looked at Czar’s face. Had he known? She’d mostly looked at Player and listened to the other children. She hadn’t wanted to see those little bodies with their ribs showing and sores everywhere. She hadn’t wanted to see the skin torn from their backs. The conditions had been so horrific, Zyah hadn’t wanted to look too closely. Did that make her a coward? She pressed her fingers tighter against her throbbing temples, hating to think she might be. She was still being a coward, trying to save herself by not looking deeper into Player’s mind. It wasn’t just the terrible things done to him and the others she would find there. She didn’t want to see what he and the others had done to anyone else.

  She lifted her chin. If she really was going to help Player, she had to stop being a baby and just do everything necessary. If that meant discovering criminal activity— which she already knew had occurred, though she thought it was honestly warranted—then too bad, she’d have to live with it.

  “Zyah.” Maestro stuck his head in the bedroom. “Need you downstairs. The cops are here. They want to see you, your grandmother and Player.” His eyes met hers, and her heart fluttered at the warning there. “Be cautious, and think before you speak.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” But she did. She knew he didn’t want her talking about the kidnapping attempt. Player had been shot aiding her. He’d shot two men to keep her from being taken. He wore a bandana wrapped around his head, hiding the raw evidence of the wound.

  Maestro’s eyes went liquid silver. Intense. “Zyah.”

  The Torpedo Ink members had a way of just saying her name that was a reprimand. Or an invitation to join them in laughter. The latter was extremely rare and only happened with a couple of them. Maestro was one of them.

  She rolled her eyes and got up, following him down to the formal living room. She passed Player on the stairs. He touched her hand but kept going, disappearing into the bedroom. She caught a glimpse of his face, even though it was averted. He looked tired. She could feel pain beating at his head again.

  “He’s overdoing it again,” she hissed to Maestro. “When I’m not here, you have to sit on him. He’s recovering, but seriously, he isn’t sleeping, and his migraines are getting worse. Hasn’t Steele explained that to you? He needs to rest, Maestro.”

  “Yeah, he explained that to us. Someone forgot to explain it to Player,” Maestro said.

  Zyah knew Player was pushing himself so he could leave. He barely spoke to her during the day. It was only when they were together at night that he responded to her, and then she was afraid it was because he thought she might give in to suggestions of her remaining in bed with him. She knew he wanted to have sex. Sometimes she lay next to him to ensure his nightmare stayed away. They just held hands while he drifted off, both afraid of his nightmares.

  Savage and Destroyer were in the hall, back in the shadows. Both made her aware of their presence but remained where they were. They were the other two members of Torpedo Ink, aside from Maestro, who occasionally and unexpectedly made her laugh. She waited with the three club members until Player returned. He had put on his Torpedo Ink vest. When he walked past her, he gripped her hand and tugged, taking her with him. Once in the living room, he nodded his head at the two men standing near the window and took the love seat.

  Zyah had no choice but to take the empty space beside Player, as he refused to relinquish her hand. She sat straight, trying not to look at Player, feeling the pain crashing through his head beating at her. She was a little shocked that no one else in the room could feel it. He looked almost gray to her. Still, his thumb slid over her knuckles, rubbing back and forth as if she were his lifeline. With his other hand he tapped a rhythm on his thigh, never a good sign with him.

  Her grandmother sat in her wheelchair looking regal, a thick pink blanket covering her legs. She inclined her head toward the two men as if bestowing benevolent gifts upon them as she waved them to the chairs opposite them.

  “Do sit down, Jonas. You’re so tall I’m going to get a kink in my neck if I have to keep looking up at you,” Anat said, her warm smile in place. “There’s fresh tea and cookies.”

  Jonas Harrington was the local sheriff and lived in Sea Haven, so when a call came in, it wasn’t unusual for him to answer in person. Beside him was Jackson Deveau, his deputy. He also resided in Sea Haven. He was married to the youngest Drake sister, and lived with her in the famous Drake home overlooking the sea. Jonas always looked pleasant and friendly. Jackson was just the opposite. Zyah hadn’t ever seen him look friendly.

  “You have a beautiful home, Ms. Gamal,” Jonas said as he sank into the armchair. “I could use a little pick-me-up about now.” He reached for the teapot as if he’d been pouring tea all his life. “Would you like some as well?”

  Anat nodded. “Call me Anat, please, Mr. Harrington. And I take it with milk.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” He grinned at her. “Jonas, then. What about you, Player? Tea? And you, Ms. Gamal?”

  “Zyah,” she corrected, keeping her voice soft and open when she felt completely closed off.

  She glanced at Player. Worried. He was the one feeling so closed off. He had shut down and gathered everything he was, burying himself deep. He was surrounding himself with barbed-wire fences and the intricate bombs he was building in his head, even the new one he was so intrigued with. He did that when he was uncomfortable o
r the migraine was too severe. She knew him so well. His hand was on his thigh, hers pressed deep to his muscle, almost as if he didn’t realize he was holding her hand now. He tapped that rhythm he’d been tapping since his childhood while he built his mythical bombs, which weren’t always so mythical, in order to take away the pain roaring through his head.

  “I’d love a cup of tea, thank you.” Zyah tried not to be distracted. Even as she smiled at the sheriff, she felt a little desperate inside.

  Maestro and Savage were in the room, and the two members of law enforcement had nodded a greeting to both. Savage seemed to just fade into the background. She always had a hard time remembering whether he was in the room or not once a conversation got started. She had no idea where Destroyer had gone. Maestro was always quiet, but he made his presence known, one hip resting on the sideboard, his gaze fixed on Jackson Deveau as if the deputy was a threat to them. Neither man seemed aware that Player was creating a situation where all of them could be in danger. They never seemed aware of it.

  As Jonas poured the milk into the tea, Zyah shifted her body closer to Player until their thighs were pressed tight. Deliberately and very slowly, she ran the pads of her fingers down his arm, feeling every muscle along the way. His gaze jumped to her face.

  She smiled at him. Fluttered her eyelashes. “When I got home from work today, you forgot to say hello to me.” She kept her voice soft. Intimate. Between the two of them, as if they were the only ones in the room.

  It was difficult to look at him and not remember what it was like to kiss him. To feel his body moving in hers. To want to run her hands over his shoulders and down his back. To belong to him. To have him belong to her. She wanted to trace every line in his face with her fingers and rub the frown away, kissing him until he couldn’t do anything but kiss her back and remember how good it was between them. She pressed those feelings into his mind.

  She had to save him from himself. She was not only desperate to stop him from building the images that would cause illusions and then turn those illusions into an alternate deadly reality, but she couldn’t stand for him to be in such pain. What was causing this terrible fracture of his mind? It wasn’t the brain injury. Steele had healed that. For a moment, just as the sheriff set her tea on the little table beside the love seat, she was afraid she might cry, right there in front of everyone. She had to figure out how to help him. Nothing was making sense.