Locke and Key (Titan Book 12)

by Cristin Harber

  Lie or not? Fucking hell.

  “Cassidy!” Alex shouted.

  She jumped.

  “Truth. Now,” Alex pushed her again.

  “Yes,” she admitted, panicking.

  “Why?”

  Her mind raced for the safest reason. “Because I’ve been trying to get you to help me, damn it. I can’t get my job back. Look at me; I’m doing stupid interviews at low-level reporting jobs that might not air. On a Sunday.” She threw her arms out, hoping to God she had acting skills. “I used to have a major-network primetime gig that people would kill for. And now I’m reduced to trying to land op-eds and high school articles that are on hold because my teacher friend”—she used air quotes—“wants to go party it up. Forgive me if I want my goddamn job back!”

  The unknown man leaned inches from her face, rancid vodka breath festering. “You have no idea what you are doing.”

  Cassidy slammed her hands into his chest. “Get off my porch.”

  The man’s backhand flew swung back high and fast. She saw the knuckles coming as she reeled back on her heels. The impact snapped her head. The crack reverberated with the lights crackling behind her eyelids. Her body twisted violently.

  Shock stunned her, paralyzing her mind. Her balance was gone; her balance in high heels gave out as she reached for anything to catch. Nothing. Nothing but air, inches away from a railing she couldn’t grab onto.

  Her fingers clawed as a blur of the world spun. Her body hit as she fell, landing and tumbling, falling and rolling. Her knees. Then her neck. Head. Then hands. Stars sprang—the violent, dark, and spinning kind—and her jaw snapped shut as white-hot pain hit the back of her head.

  An earthquake of agony ricocheted again. Her back screamed, and her shoulder blades wept in pain as she replayed the fall. Stairs. Railing. Sidewalk.

  She tried to open her eyes. Tried to call for help.

  Nothing. Until she realized she was on the brick sidewalk, vaguely aware she’d half-landed in a mulch bed, the flowers in her face. All the way down the brick staircase.

  Cassidy gagged, spitting out dirt as it mixed with her blood. Every bone felt as though it had shattered. She squeezed her eyes shut, sure she was hemorrhaging blood. Dying. She couldn’t breathe. There were no gasps left to let her scream for help.

  “Shit, Cassidy!” Alex sounded so far away. His words spun, mocking her, making her want to vomit. “What the fuck did you do?”

  Cassidy gasped—finally able to take a breath. She pushed up. Trying. Trying… no. She couldn’t. Gasp. Cough. Oh, she sputtered and inhaled. The air had been knocked out of her lungs. She wasn’t dead. But her temples… they pounded, and painfully, she dropped back as a headache barreled between her ears.

  These steps are going to kill you. Softly, she began to cry, and not just because everything hurt. But that was the moment that everything caught up with her. She thought about how her career had come crashing down. She’d been in war and in prison, the laughingstock of politicians, of a country. And hated by a man who maybe didn’t dislike her so much anymore but still ran from her when things became hot and heavy.

  She was too exhausted—physically, emotionally, mentally. Cassidy hurt… so… many ways. Soft tears fell, and she didn’t have the strength to get up and wipe them away. She was broken, absolutely shattered. She hadn’t known that she was so close to falling apart or that a little pain would destroy her carefully constructed façade.

  “Cassidy!”

  Her eyes opened, and disoriented, she blinked through tear-soaked lashes as Locke’s face was suddenly in front of hers. His palms were on her cheeks. His blue eyes were intent with worry—and anger.

  Oh no. Wilting behind her pathetic parade of tears, she tried to sit up and wipe her face.

  “Easy, don’t move.”

  She agreed but moved anyway, burying her face in her hands and sobbing.

  Locke ran his hands over her. “Easy, Beauty.”

  The lull of his voice and hands brought a calm. He whispered her name over and over like a spell until she crawled into his arms. Locke’s solid body turned to a warm pillow. All she needed was to be wrapped in his cocoon, safe from the shock that had held her.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, hearing her voice echo in her head.

  “Sorry? Don’t be. We’ll head to the hospital. Get you checked out.”

  “No, no.” She wanted to shake her head but couldn’t justify how badly her headache would hurt. “I don’t like hospitals.”

  He held her closer. “You need to see a doctor.”

  Cassidy straightened. “I have a high pain threshold.”

  “Beauty, you’re sobbing in your front yard.”

  She looked around, stared up the stairs, and then realized that her high heel had come off and her skirt had hiked—not that it mattered, since she was curled in a ball in Locke’s arms. Slowly, she unfolded herself and sat next to him. “He pushed me.”

  Locke’s caring face morphed. His blue eyes boiled, and his steely jaw flexed. “Excuse me?”

  Cloudy-headed, she tried to recall how it had all happened. “Or he hit me. With his hand. Drew back and…”

  “Who?”

  “Alex was here—”

  “Alex hit you?” Locke’s deadly growl curled with the vicious, simple question.

  “No,” Cassidy whimpered. “He was here. With a man. And… they knew I was there. I pushed him, and he smacked me. I fell.”

  She focused on Locke as he tried to make sense of what she was saying. How they’d figured her out when her disguise covered her features was anyone’s guess.

  Locke shook his head. “Doctor’s. Let’s go.”

  Cassidy wiped her face. “This was more a mental breakdown than a broken bone.”

  His tight face showed that he didn’t agree. “You might have a concussion.”

  “Then ibuprofen and no nap.”

  A car slowed as it passed to look at them sitting at the base of her front steps. “You’re probably bleeding, Cass.”

  Probably so. Her knees were, and she shifted next to him. “Do you have a first aid kit in your truck? Because I’m not the type to stock Band-Aids.”

  Locke’s inner war played on his face. Again, she could read one of his expressions, and it was a big fat I don’t wanna. “Yeah… in my go-bag.”

  “Then bandage me up, because I don’t want to go to a hospital. They’ll want a report, want to press charges, and that will mess up what we’re working on.”

  He looked at the base of the stairs where she had landed and let his eyes drift up, up, up.

  “You know I’m right, Locke. Greater good here.”

  Locke reached for the rogue high heel then took her foot and slipped it on. His hands lingered longer than they should, and a sliver of goosebumps traveled up her calf, stopping short of her newly scraped knee—there was something so wrong with her if, in pain and in shock, she had a semblance of carnal interest.

  But it was Locke, and who could deny that his strong, large hands smoothing over her skin wasn’t some special kind of medicine. The act of slipping her shoe on seemed so chivalrous, possessive, protective.

  “Please take me inside. The ringing in my ears has already stopped, and my purse has some headache medicine. I’ll pop those, and it’ll help with the soreness too.”

  Locke’s features faltered as though he couldn’t decide.

  “Please, Locke. It’s important to me that I keep going. Don’t make me beg.”

  He rolled his lips together, and the tendons in his neck strained. “Give me a second to grab my shit.”

  “Okay.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  “What am I going to do? Fall again while I’m sitting down?” Locke took that moment to tip her head back and kiss her uncertain laugh off her lips.

  Just like his protective, possessive hands, his lips were tender and said a million things as caring and calm, but when he pulled away, he twisted a strand of her ha
ir in his fingers. “I’m going to kill that Russian fucker, Beauty. Just so you know.”

  She would’ve laughed if it wouldn’t have hurt. For how singsong sweet and romantic he’d sounded, the man worrying over her was deadly lethal. “Thank you, baby.”

  His worry lines softened for a moment. “I know you’re patronizing me.”

  “Not as much as you think, but I know you’re not going to murder someone.”

  Locke grumbled, raising an eyebrow. “And if anything doesn’t look right, I’m taking you to the hospital. Deal?”

  Her lips pouted.

  “Or no deal. Those are your two options.”

  “You wouldn’t ruin an op for my well-being.”

  Locke’s hard glare broke. “You have no idea what I’d do when it comes to you.” He pushed off the ground and headed to his truck, quickly returning with his go-bag, pulling it across his chest like a messenger bag. She held her hand up for help off her butt, and—oh, her muscles were so dang sore—it was as good a time as ever to stand up. He leaned over—but scooped her up as though she were the flowers she had lain in.

  “Locke.” Her feet dangled in the air as she wrapped an arm around his neck.

  “Yeah?”

  “I can walk, you know.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have your ass in my arms. What fun would that be?” He chuckled, and she relaxed and dropped her head against his shoulder.

  The man had a good point.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Cradled in Locke’s arms, Cassidy had an altogether different point of view of her home as they entered. Mostly because she was floating, in more than one way, and trying to put on a brave face as her headache waned but the cuts and scrapes screamed for attention.

  “Over there, please.” She directed him toward the kitchen, where the nearest bottle of pain relievers was likely stashed in her purse.

  They passed awards and newspaper clips that she had framed and hung on her wall. She wondered if Locke would react if he saw any of the clippings from Sadr City. They were a source of pride—as much as they were her downfall—and she’d decorated with them after she stopped winning awards for her writing and broadcasts as a reminder of where she had been and what she had survived and attained, so she could achieve all that again.

  “Easy does it.” He placed her on the counter and went to a cabinet, on his first guess finding the glasses and then filling one with water.

  Locke’s eyes lingered on the wall. He stood in front of the framed front-page Washington Journal spread on Cassidy’s sentencing. It was a source of pride, though Locke probably was of the group that thought she’d committed treason for journalistic integrity.

  He didn’t mention it, though.

  She reached for her purse and popped out the headache pills and then took the water he offered. She swallowed them down, semi-able to read his face. It didn’t have to do with the clippings or Sadr City reports. He was upset about her injuries. Or maybe a combination of the two things. “What is it?”

  “You have mulch in your hair.” He picked a piece or two out, flicking them into the sink. “Ready to get cleaned up?”

  She nodded, knowing that anywhere they went in the house would be like walking through a museum of her reporting. Not likely his favorite thing.

  “Here? Where at?” he asked, not mentioning the magazine cover that her mom had framed and displayed across from the fridge. Cassidy couldn’t make a cup of coffee in the morning without the reminder that she’d been on top once and would get back there.

  “I can run to my bathroom and bandage myself up.”

  Locke’s brow lifted and said nuh-uh without him having to say a word.

  “I want to stare at myself in the mirror. You don’t need to be party to that.” Cassidy half-laughed. “The cuts and bruises—I don’t know. They’re going to be like a badge of honor. I want to see them. Ugly and all.”

  He stepped closer. “Nothing’s ugly, hon.”

  The way he said it… Cassidy swallowed hard. Sometimes he didn’t say much, but he said everything. His voice rumbled, and his intonation was measured. Locke could hide a thousand meanings in a simple phrase. Warmth crawled up her neck. “Help me down.”

  Just a nod. No words—just his capable hands on her waist—and still so much was said. He gently set her down as though she still had her dignity and wasn’t mulch-covered and scratched.

  “This way.” Cassidy’s high heels clicked on the hardwood floor, and she smoothed her hands over her hips, suddenly nervous that Locke was entering her sanctuary, however clean or messy she’d left it. If she’d had any idea he’d be near her bedroom and bath, a quick tidy would’ve been nice. “If we step over rogue panties on the floor, I have no problem admitting I’m not the greatest at laundry. Or using my hamper.”

  He chuckled. “Do you routinely leave—”

  A bra hung on her doorknob, and she grabbed it, tossing it toward the closet. “Nothing to see here, folks.”

  His laugh gained gusto. “My eyes aren’t even open.”

  Cassidy spun on her heel. “They so are.”

  He hitched half a smile and tilted his head but didn’t give her much to work with, and she spun back around as they stepped into her bathroom. She flipped the light on, thankful the room was neat, and Locke extracted a first aid sack from his bag as she stared in the mirror. There was a purplish bruise on her cheekbone where Alex’s friend had backhanded her. “Does this qualify as a shiner?”

  “Maybe a little low.”

  “Aw, shucks. Maybe next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time.” Tension flexed in the tendons in his neck as he placed items on the counter and rummaged through her bevy of lotions, sprays, brushes, and makeup. Locke rolled his lips and let out a breath like he was trying to let go of the anger. Maybe she wouldn’t joke about black eyes.

  “You have a lot of girl crap not to have any first aid crap.”

  She shifted next to him, toying with the bottle of her favorite lotion, and then popped the lid open, smelled it, forced it under his nose, and pulled it back. “I plan on spilled nail polish, not blood, and have a secret thing for sugary-scented lotions and sprays.”

  He made a face she couldn’t read, as always.

  “Tell anyone I’m not a cutthroat reporter and can be bought off with body lotion, and you’re a dead man.”

  He flashed a quick glance but focused on the first aid supplies. “Your secret is safe with me.” Setup complete, Locke turned his full attention on her, stepping closer.

  Instantly, Cassidy’s pain lessened under his silken smolder with him close, so protective, so gentle, yet so focused. That lethal powerhouse of brawn and brute force was housed in one man, and he was taking care of her. Her throat tickled with emotion and need, something entirely different from what had built inside her at Red Star.

  “What’s that look?” he asked. “Headache getting worse?”

  “No. Better.” She’d never confess that the look was her going far too deep.

  “What hurts the worst?”

  Quickly, Cassidy took an account of her injuries. She was much less achy than she expected, though maybe the double dose of pain relievers had helped. Her back hurt more than her knees, and the more she tried to ignore the pain under her hairline, the more that spot on her neck hurt.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “This is getting worse, but the rest isn’t so bad.” She lifted her hair. “See anything?” She twisted, trying to look in the mirror simultaneously. “I think I scraped it.”

  Locke sucked air through his teeth. “Damn it, Cass. That didn’t just start hurting.”

  “No…” She dropped her hair and took a hand mirror from a drawer. He scowled as she turned to face him. “That bad, huh?”

  “No,” he said, but she was getting better at reading his BS.

  Cassidy looked in the hand mirror and saw the reflection of her neck in the bathroom mirror. “Oh.”

  “Oh,” he re
peated. “The edge of a stair caught your neck, maybe?”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled.

  “Looks like one of ’em took a chunk out of you, babe.”

  Cassidy bit her lip. “Looks like.”

  “Okay, back around.” His cool fingers skimmed over her skin. The touch was methodical and precise, only meant to help, yet still she found her skin prickling with goosebumps. “Some hair dried in it.”

  It was the wrong time to react to his caress. “Gross. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t just apologize to me for bleeding.” Locke’s concentration deepened. He was in work mode. He ducked closer and carefully dislodged strands drying in her scab.

  Not meaning to sway in her heels, she watched him, drunk on the idea he was doctoring her. It was erotic. She couldn’t figure out how or why. It just was. She knew how his tongue felt in her mouth, how his words could get her wound up, and his mind could challenge her—but Locke was physically taking care of her—even if it was just a scratch—and he was throwing his entire focus into it. Into her. She swayed again because, damn—had anyone ever cared that much about her well-being? No.

  “You’re steady on your feet?” He stood upright and eyed her suspiciously in the mirror, not having a clue he was whipping her into a frenzy. “Because even on the best of days, those heels are…” His lips pushed together, and he let the moment hang as she blushed in the mirror. “Hard to walk in.”

  She wasn’t taking her shoes off if Locke looked at her like she’d struck a match to gasoline and lit him aflame from the inside out—not for all the pain pills in this house. “I’m good.”

  “You are?” His dexterous fingers danced over the fabric of her fitted blouse, running along the seam on her shoulders. He sucked his cheeks in, and his tongue dipped out over his lower lip before he dropped a long glance at her heels, letting the lazy gaze drag up her legs and over her backside and meet her face in the mirror again.

  “Yes. Fine.” Oh, no she wasn’t. She needed first aid ointment and a Band-Aid but was painfully aware that his blue eyes could caress her in a way that ensured she would need a follow-up with his hands.