Locke and Key (Titan Book 12)

by Cristin Harber

  Locke swallowed the unsatisfied urges. “The wig covers your hair; I cover the rest.”

  She cuddled him. The move was needy and heated as she knotted her hand into his shirt. “What if he sees you?”

  Shit, woman. Locke wasn’t worried. “No one’s paying attention to us right now.” Or if they were, they were voyeurs. “Plus, I’m a generic white dude Alex has seen in passing. Dime a dozen. He won’t.”

  “Nothing about you is generic.” Cassidy’s husky laugh was sexy and rasped his senses in all the right ways. “But me? He knows.”

  “Don’t worry—” He flinched as the earpiece squealed, then reached into his pocket to make an adjustment. “A little closer, okay?”

  If that wasn’t a sign they had to work, he didn’t know what was. She let him lead, and finally, Locke could break past the white noise in his earpiece and dial in on a conversation, but it wasn’t their targets. “Over this way. Come on.”

  What they needed was some high-tech spy toys. But he needed major convincing of Titan’s head honchos to get his hands anywhere near those. What he had were essentially throwaways. Good thing he and Cassidy were only a few tables away, as far as Locke could tell, from their targets in the VIP section. It was hard to see without being too obvious.

  “We’re getting a little risky,” Cassidy said.

  “I think we’re okay.” Alex and Ivan were on the other side of a partition, on a raised dais. There was a pillar, so he leaned against it, drawing Cassidy to him. Security cameras likely scanned the crowd, but they wouldn’t have an eye out for Cassidy, and with her disguise, he felt fine unless the club ran facial recognition and they had a flag for her, which was a stretch.

  He pulled her closer and watched as she tilted her head up. Towering over his favorite redhead—even if she wasn’t red that night—was fun, mostly because he liked to watch her blue-green eyes dance the way the people in this club moved.

  She bit her lip. “Okay.”

  Christ. That lip thing would be his death. “I’m this close to losing control. It’s not a good thing.”

  She inched forward. “What’s not a good thing?”

  Damn. It was. It really, really fucking was a good thing. The way her lips tasted, the way he imagined how they’d look wrapped around his cock, her dark-red hair falling around her face as her hungry, sassy mouth took him inch by inch—they were all good. He looked away and then back at her. No, he couldn’t work like this, thinking about her sucking him, her tongue sliding along his shaft. He sucked in a breath. “Cassidy, don’t bite that damn lip right now.”

  “Why?” she whispered. “I like the way you look at me when I do.”

  The time for gentleness was gone. He took her face in his hands, loving every bit of shock and surprise that was written all over it. “I’m going to love every second I suck on that tongue.” His nostrils flared, and his chest expanded with each rapid breath. “Every moan you give me, from every second I kiss you, Beauty.”

  “Locke—”

  He took her mouth, tasted it—damn, he owned it. Wanted it. Needed it. Locke struggled for a semblance of control as she fought for more of the kiss as much as he did. Her tongue tangled with his, slipping into his mouth, stroking and teasing.

  Cassidy grabbed his shirt, and damn, he liked how this vixen knotted her hands in the button-down before sliding them up his chest. Like she needed to hang on tight, and every time she grabbed him, it went straight to his dick.

  “We’re still working,” she panted.

  “You think I can’t do two things at once?” Though trying to listen to Alex’s table was nearly impossible, he held her close with one arm, and the other hand traveled toward her full breast. Her hard nipple stood erect. “Three things. I can listen. Kiss you. And tease you.”

  In the crowded club, he grazed her breast, and she arched her back. Cassidy’s dress cloaked her body like tailored-leather perfection, perfectly curving over her mounds and reminding him she had sexy hips he could hold onto and an ass that he wanted to see on his bed and raised in the air.

  “Fuck,” he groaned into her mouth, moving them so her back was to the wall and they had a faux semblance of privacy.

  Locke teased two searching fingers down the vee of her dress, and his mouth watered over her breasts, knowing the peaked tips of her nipples were so close.

  Her hand dropped, and Cassidy groped for his erection—he sucked air between his teeth.

  “Beauty,” he growled. What did she want him to do—unbuckle and free his throbbing cock? Slide her panties to the side so he could fuck her here? So many times had he imagined doing that. The night at the restaurant had almost killed him. He went home and jerked off to the thought again and again, knowing how his length would fit perfectly in her tight pussy. Inch by inch, he’d take her and would watch her lips part and eyes go wide.

  Her hand grasped him—tightly. “You’re very… remarkable.”

  “That…” He couldn’t breathe as she stroked over his pants. “That sounds like a word a journalist would use,” he whispered, grinding his back molars. “You are going to kill me.”

  “Then you know how I feel.”

  “No, Cassidy. You have no fucking clue.”

  “Locke.” She caught his eye. “Touch me.”

  He stilled.

  “Don’t stop on me now. Please. I need that.”

  She was nuts if she thought they could play this little game and not explode from the tension, but he was game to try. Slowly, he let his hand crawl down the front of her dress, and then his fingertips danced across the soft inner flesh of her thigh. She sighed, leaning into him, and at the top of her legs, his knuckles brushed against her damp underwear. “God, Cass—”

  Suddenly, Locke heard Russian-accented English. It came in spurts. He pulled his focus from Cassidy. As he tried to track the back-and-forth between the men, it became apparent that they weren’t talking about ho-hum topics but instead were mentioning names of US senators and members of financial agencies.

  “What?” she asked as his hand froze.

  US senators Locke couldn’t ignore, and he adjusted her skirt back in place as his head dropped back, hating the timing. His hand covered hers. “Hang on a sec.”

  “What’s the matter?” Cassidy asked.

  He gritted his teeth. “If I could hear them, would you want to know what the conversation’s about?”

  “Can you?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Maybe.” The music shifted suddenly and boomed. The cool blue laser lights turned red like fire and exploded like fireworks. The bass dropped, and the crowd danced harder. The harder he tried to concentrate on the conversation in his earpiece, the worse the music grated his senses.

  But it was more than that, almost like each note had a stranglehold on him. Locke’s eyes pulled away from Cassidy, the pinpricks of a cold sweat popping on his neck.

  Boom. Boom.

  Damn it. He couldn’t breathe. The DJ brought the music up, and the light show became brilliant. Yellows and red exploded on the walls. Locke’s pulse escalated, and it was as though the Red Star club had been replaced by Sadr City, each explosion striking in his ears.

  “Hey—Cass—” But he shook away the loss of control, the idea that he couldn’t see straight, even that he wasn’t the master of his reactions. The music was nothing more than a wailing siren, disguised as techno music, and it bled into the suddenly stifling air. It choked him. Crushed him. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Locke had to get the hell out of this club.

  “I need a drink. Come on,” he said, tugging her away. “And air. Just need…”

  “Hey, wait—I thought you could hear something,” she said as he pulled her away.

  Yeah. He could hear war. Death. Destruction. He could hear the hell he thought she caused, the world he’d been suffering through—would someone turn the goddamn music off?

  “Locke?” She clung to him even as he rushed them through the dizzying crowd. The temperature must�
�ve risen a thousand degrees.

  “Hey! Hang on.” Cassidy pulled, but he didn’t slow.

  By the time they reached the bar, the DJ had transitioned the red-glaring music to the techno-Russian blue-lasered beat from before. Cassidy’s stance was harsh and her eyes assessing. “What is going on?”

  “Thirsty?” The rapid rise and fall of his chest matched the sweat tickling his temples. Locke flagged the bartender as his pulse slowed a fraction. He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, getting his bearings.

  “Locke?” She tried again. “What’s your problem?”

  “Nothing. Shitty music.”

  “The music?” Cassidy’s demeanor was cool as the ice display that they offered vodka shots from behind the bar.

  How grossly unaffected she was, and still, he couldn’t shake the panic attack that rolled over him as if the Night of Fire descended all over again. Red and orange lights. The booms and sirens. And there Cassidy was, completely no fucking reaction. She’d watched everyone die too, damn it! Still no reaction? Locke stared, studying her.

  No. Nothing. Maybe because she was guiltier than hell… “We should leave.” Locke couldn’t handle all the memories flooding his mind. All those bodies. All that blood. In his hair. His nose. His mouth. His hands—as the fires screamed around them and he couldn’t find his friends, his brothers.

  Fuck. The sound of explosions flooded his mind, punctuating it with wailing cries and death.

  “Sure.” Her look was overly assessing. “I’m ready to leave.”

  After waving the bartender away, he rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of the last few minutes and needing to block out the sound. Cassidy was his problem? He liked her, and hell, he wanted her more than he could recall ever wanting a woman. Maybe he shouldn’t. But she was smart and beautiful and smelled like something he wanted to remember. Except that his mind did remember. He always leapt back there, even when it wasn’t warranted. She was forever in his memory, tied to an awful tragedy.

  “What’s going on with you? We were just… and we’re here.” Her hands landed on his biceps, and he jumped.

  Locke tried to play it off, turning and slipping the earpiece free and eyeing the club’s exit.

  “What was that?” she snapped. “What the hell is happening here?”

  An icy-cold sweat tickled the back of his neck, and its uncomfortable fingers reached down his shoulder blades, reminding him that they had seen so much death between them.

  “Nothing. Let’s go.” He put his hand on her back, trying to guide her to leave, but she sidestepped.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.” Gone were the good mood and the smiles. “Sure. Got my pictures, tried to see what they were up to. Nothing particularly shady.” She cleared her throat. Taking a step back, she adjusted the black wig. “He didn’t cancel on the Mikhailovs this time. That says something to me. I’m glad I came for the confirmation. Thanks.”

  She walked away from him, shoulders back with no indication that there was music or that her body had been dancing, wrapped against his as they groped and kissed. She could’ve been walking out of the Metro station on her way to work, head forward, shoulders back.

  Locke swallowed the knot in his throat. The attitude problem walking away from him was fine as long as he got out of this place. Cassidy was back in business mode, and he had put her there. To hell with it. Locke shoved past another person and made a beeline for fresh air and freedom.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  For as much as Sadr City had consumed Locke’s thoughts and as much as he wanted to hate her and blame her, he couldn’t let Cassidy go. It probably had something to do with how frigid she became. That pissed him off. He was the one who could be upset. What the hell did she have to get worked up over if it wasn’t the attack? Then he couldn’t let her leave like that, which meant twenty minutes of awkward-angry silence because he’d nearly demanded to drive her home. She took up his offer though, which said something because Cassidy didn’t take anything she didn’t want from anyone.

  “That’s me.” Cassidy pointed to a driveway.

  He cut the turn and pulled in. Damn it. Right now, he wanted to hate her, and hell, he also wanted to tell her that he’d been partially able to listen to the Russian conversation. He even wanted to admit to having a partial mental meltdown. But fuck it, how to explain what he didn’t have words for? That was impossible.

  “What the hell happened?” Cassidy snapped.

  Where to begin… He shifted into park and turned to stare as she pulled off her black wig and the odd little cap that had her red hair tucked into it. The next minute was nothing but hair fluffing while she focused on the wig rather than, he was sure, yelling at him.

  He wanted her to. Really. If she screamed and ranted, he knew how to handle that. But a silent Cassidy? No, that sliced him.

  Locke wanted her out of his truck but didn’t want her to go. He wanted her back in his arms as much as the idea terrified him. Instead of doing either, he gripped the steering wheel, letting his knuckles turn white. He glanced over and saw that she wasn’t going anywhere. Thank God.

  His mind was so fucking jacked up even as he was calming down. “Do you ever want a fresh start, Cass?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “One where you don’t have a memory, a nightmare, that crops up when you don’t want it to? Where you don’t blame people in the darkness? Don’t hear things that haunt you?”

  She tilted her head his direction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right.” Alone in the darkness. He twisted his grip on the steering wheel until his palms hurt. His chest ached. His woman was hurt. His woman? He’d hurt her. Not that Cassidy was his, but fucking hell…

  His mind hated them both, him and her and everything about that evening. Cassidy succumbed to the silent treatment the entire way back to her house. There she sat, one the most beautiful people he’d ever had the privilege to meet, with lips pressed into a thin, pissed-off line and so much ire pouring off of her that he could chisel the tension.

  “Thanks for the lift.” Mechanically, she unfolded herself from his truck and pushed the door open. Without so much as a wave, she slammed the door, and its echo reverberated in his head like a prison gate repeatedly locking.

  Slam.

  Slam.

  Slam.

  Cassidy marched toward a modest house perched atop a large brick staircase. She had flowerbeds and a cute lawn. How long had Cassidy been in prison? It couldn’t have been more than a few days, but was she forced into the general population, or was it more symbolic, with her kept safe in a holding cell?

  He wondered if she’d been scared. What was worse, the unknown of war or going to jail? She’d been protected in Iraq, as much as she could’ve been considering that death was an expected part of war. But in prison, no one expected to die, yet prisoners weren’t exactly protected, either.

  Slam.

  Locke’s hands went to his temples. He was lying to himself if he didn’t think he cared about her or appreciated what she’d gone through, and fucking hell, he couldn’t keep blaming her for Sadr City.

  His fist balled, and he wanted to punch the ceiling—but he forced it open. He wouldn’t take more pain or another blast of adrenaline to hang onto the past. “What the hell is wrong with me?” Cassidy. That was what was always wrong with him.

  But at the moment, she was climbing a long brick staircase, getting farther away from him. Maybe that was the problem. On her front porch, she didn’t turn around but only unlocked the door quickly—and she turned off the front-porch light.

  “Got it, Beauty. Go home. Understood.” She couldn’t have been clearer. He’d been clear too. Before he’d pushed her too damn far away, his hands had been all over her; his mouth had been on a mission to create a thousand moans. Then… nothing.

  The urge to go after her needled until he could think of nothing except what she might say if he opened the door. He chortled, dropping his head i
nto his hands. She’d probably hit him in the chest and yell that he needed to stop opening doors that she had shut.

  “But I never fucking learn.” Locke jumped out of his truck and jogged to the long flight of stairs and up to the porch. Hand on the doorknob, he caught himself before trying to walk in.

  Slipping into the back of her car outside the Russian embassy had been him watching out for her.

  Getting into her car at St. Andrew’s? Inserting himself into an investigation never hurt anyone.

  But walking into her house unannounced could be crossing an unforgivable line.

  He yanked his arm back like a scolded child and didn’t know what to do. For the first time in his life, he just stood there, unsure and unsteady. He needed to knock.

  So he did. Twice. No answer…

  “Come on, Cass.” He knocked again.

  Warily, Cassidy opened the door. “Do you have a flat tire?” Her chin rested on the doorjamb. “Or maybe you’d like to continue playing games? I’ll save you the trouble. Not interested.”

  Man, he had screwed up. It was painful to see that sweet mouth spewing venom.

  “Are you going to invite me inside?”

  “Not a chance, big boy.” She moved to slam the door, but he put his foot in the way. Her angry eyes narrowed.

  Locke stepped back, throwing his hands up. “Jesus, shit. You’re mad. I fucked up. I get it.”

  “Good. I get it too. You’re an asshole. Go the hell home.”

  “Actually, no,” he snapped. “You don’t get it at all, but what the fuck ever.”

  “What don’t I get?” She let out a small laugh, and her expression went back to stone. “Hot, cold. Helper bee. Huge freaking hindrance. All in all, asshole.”

  He scrubbed his face with his hands and ran them through his hair, blowing out a frustrated breath before dropping them to his side. All of him felt as though he was too large to be standing on her front porch having that conversation. “Are you going to let me inside, Cassidy? Because I don’t like being out here.”