When I try to sit, I discover I’m significantly less drunk than I was when we got here, but still drunker than I’ve ever been in my life up until tonight. I manage to gain my feet and stagger to the bathroom.
I make the mistake of turning on the light. The image looking back at me from the mirror is one of a deranged circus clown. After weeks of wearing no makeup, it felt a little funny this morning to put it on. Now I wish I hadn’t. I find a facecloth on the towel rod and wet it, scrubbing my face clean. I finger comb my hair and then pick up the toothpaste tube from the holder next to the sink. As I squeeze some onto my finger, I remember Oliver doing the same and my face crumbles with the image.
But I push the tears and the thought away along with any last remnants of Oliver. When I’m mostly presentable, I go in search of Wes.
I came to Tampa this afternoon for a reason.
I find him asleep on the leather sofa. He’s thrown off the sheet, and he’s in only snug-fitting black boxer-briefs.
I slip my dress off my shoulders and let it drop to the floor, then climb onto the sofa next to him.
He wakes with a start. “What … ?” He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth and sits up. “What’s wrong?”
I grasp his strong arms and pull him back to lie next to me on the sofa. “Nothing now.”
There’s a long minute where he says nothing. He doesn’t even move. But then he wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
His breath in my hair is warm; his hands on my skin, sure. He’s strong and alive and whole.
I’m not.
I’ve thought about this a lot since the day on the beach a month ago when Wes told me Oliver was dead. I think the reason Papa and Rob lost their humanity to the business is because a soul can’t survive forcing another soul into oblivion. The instant I found out I’d killed Oliver, I felt my soul somehow unmoor from my body. It’s as if they’re in the same place in alternate planes of existence. My body is just a meat machine, moving through space aimlessly. My soul is aching and cold and alone, crying in the dark for someone to find it and bring it home.
If it’s ever going to find its way back to me, I need to help it. I need to do something that transcends body and soul, binding them back together. I need to let myself really feel.
I reach around and unhook my bra, then press up and let it slip off my shoulders.
Wes watches me in the moonlight through the picture windows of his living room, his eyes wide. “Lee, you’re drunk. This isn’t happening to—”
I cut off his words by pressing my mouth against his. I slide on top of him as we kiss and press my body along the solid length of his, skin on skin, separated by nothing but a thin layer of lace and cotton.
He hesitates before kissing me back, but then his lips begin to move with mine. His fingers dig into my hips and I feel his cock start to thicken where I straddle him.
I glide my hand between us and stroke him through the thin cotton of his underwear, encouraging it.
His hands slide to my ass and grind me harder against him. His mouth trails up my neck, along my jaw and finds mine again. The scratch of his stubble on my skin feels like Oliver, and I close my eyes and shudder.
We kiss and his hand trails up my bare stomach. He flicks his thumb over the nub of my nipple. I arch into his strong hand and it envelops my breast.
He lets out a tortured groan, and all I hear is Oliver. All I feel is Oliver.
All I want is Oliver.
In one deft move, he rolls us so he’s hovering above me. I take the second before he settles his weight on top of me to shimmy off my underwear and kick it to the floor. He lays me back as his mouth closes over one nipple, then the other.
There’s a stirring of warmth in my belly.
“Yes,” I breathe.
His warm mouth giving suck and his tongue swirling my nipples into straining peaks makes me feel more alive than I have in the last month. I can feel my soul hovering—deciding whether to come back to me.
We kiss and explore, his hand eventually slipping between my legs. A finger plunges inside me as he palms my clit.
He’s strong. I can feel him, coiled tight. Ready.
I want to feel. I need to feel.
Oliver.
I press his boxers over his hips and free his cock. He’s hovering over me, his erection poised and ready.
And then everything stops except his breathing, hot and heavy on my neck.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” He pushes back and sits on his heels. “You’re drunk and I’m not going to take advantage of you.”
The gnawing wrongness I’ve been trying to ignore at his non-Oliver scent and his non-Oliver feel and his non-Oliver moves rolls through me from head to toe. I slide up to sit on the sofa and make a feeble attempt at covering myself. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
“You know I want this, Lee. I have since I met you. But before I risk everything for this, I need to know it’s what you really want.” His eyes stay locked on mine, despite the fact that I’m buck naked and shivering. “Not when you’re drunk. Not when you’re scared. But all the time.”
Risking anything for me is a bad gamble. Oliver risked everything for me and lost. And this is how I repay him, take everything he died for and cheapen it.
I claim my clothes from the floor and run to the bathroom and throw up.
When the nausea finally passes, I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror, self-loathing eating through my insides like acid.
“Oliver,” I whisper, my eyes welling and rippling my image, distorting me into the monster I am.
He loved me. He died for me.
And I never deserved him.
Chapter 20
Lee
I seem to have weathered the self-destructive phase of mourning Oliver, though not before I made things totally awkward with Wes. I’ve apologized for getting drunk and throwing myself at him, and he’s apologized for letting me.
Now, when he comes around, he’s stiff and professional. I know it’s because he’s waiting for some signal that I’m all in before he risks his job for me. On my end, I’ve been careful to stop with the mixed signals. There may come a time I’m ready to date again, and if Wes is still available and interested, I’d love if it were him. But I think that’s still a long way off.
It’s the middle of August. Sherm starts fifth grade next week, though it’s hard to believe summer’s nearly over when it’s pushing a hundred degrees today.
I’m in the boys’ section at the Target in Port Charlotte. I needed an excuse for some solitude and Sherm provided it. He’s grown three inches this summer and I can’t send him back to school in high-water jeans.
I’ve got a few possibilities over my shoulder and am thumbing through the rack of shredder tees when a pair of strong hands grip my shoulders and yank me behind the divider where three-packs of Hanes and Fruit of the Loom hang.
On instinct, I reach behind me for my Cheetah before remembering I don’t have a gun anymore. I turn and swing with every ounce of strength I can muster. A grenade explodes in my knuckles as my fist connects with a strong jaw. I grab my hand and cry out.
But just as I’m turning to run, I see who the jaw is attached to and time screeches to a halt.
“Nice, Cheetah,” Oliver says, rubbing his face and sending me a smirk. “Remind me never to invite you into the kickboxing ring.”
His face is clean-shaven and his hair is a few shades lighter—closer to my color now—but those familiar green eyes impale me, spearing straight through my heart.
“You’re dead.” It’s barely anything, more breath than sound.
He lifts a hand and cradles my cheek, gliding his thumb over my trembling lower lip. “Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
“Oh my God,” I say, falling into his arms.
“I told you I’d be ba—” he starts, but I cut him off, my mouth crashi
ng into his.
“I love you,” I whisper between kisses. “God, I love you so much.”
A mother with two young boys rushes her kids along when she catches sight of the groping match happening behind the underwear display. He’s solid and warm and real. My Oliver. I’m doing everything humanly possible to climb right into him.
“Wes showed me the article,” I breathe when he draws away minutes later, his gaze burning into mine. “You were shot, then burned. He said there were fingerprints and dental—”
He glances around and stops me with a finger to my lips when we notice one of the boys peek around the corner of the rack at us. “Can we talk about this somewhere where there are fewer ears?”
The jeans that had been draped over my shoulder when I swung at him are in a heap on the floor. I leave them there and grab his hand. He lets me tow him through the store to the parking lot, but when I start toward my car, he tugs me the other direction.
“We’ll come back for it,” he says when I give him a questioning look.
He clicks open the doors of a red Mustang and we jump inside. He reaches past me into the glove box and pulls out my Beretta. “Thought you might be missing this.”
I take it with a shaking hand. “You trust me not to shoot you?”
He shrugs as he backs out of the parking spot and a cocky smile curls his lips. “Didn’t work out so bad last time.”
I start to smile back, but then remember the last time I saw this gun. I scowl down at it. “You pointed this at me.”
“You pointed it at me first,” he counters.
My scowl deepens. “When I thought you wanted to kill me!”
He hauls a deep breath and pulls into traffic. “I needed you to let me go. I wasn’t sure you’d just let me walk away. But I never would have pulled the trigger.” His eyes flick to mine, hot and intense. “You have to know that.”
“Where did you go?”
“First, back to Las Vegas.” He slows at a traffic signal and his gaze locks on mine. “Then to Safesite.”
My eyes widen as my heart thuds to a stop. “Safesite? You’re in Witness Protection?”
He nods.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Oliver … what did you do?”
“Everything.” The light turns and he guns the engine. The car rockets up the highway ramp and he weaves through traffic at a discernibly unsafe speed.
He never drives like this, past the edge of control. I grip the seat and decide not to distract him by asking what everything means.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re skidding to a stop in the drop-off loop at the front doors of a hotel. The valet is with someone else and Oliver doesn’t wait. He tosses his keys onto the valet stand and spirits me through the lobby to the elevators. He pounds the side of his fist against the call button repeatedly, looking impatiently at the numbers flashing above the elevators. When one finally dings on the ground floor, he ushers me through before the doors are fully open. By the time we reach the eighteenth floor and Oliver hurries me up the hallway, my bra’s unhooked under my top and his shirt is half unbuttoned.
When we’re safely inside his room, I yank the front of his shirt open, popping the remaining buttons. But then I see the angry red scars from the gunshot.
“I could have killed you,” I say, tracing the wounds. I look into his eyes. “Twice. Wes said your family was looking for you. Did your father find out what I did?”
He nods. “Doesn’t matter, though. I wasn’t going back there anyway.”
I pull him to the bed. “What’s everything, Oliver? What did you do?”
He draws away from me and moves to the window, looking out over the lagoon. “I gave the Feds everything I could on my father. They’ve got enough to keep Victor in lockup for the better part of eternity.”
I go to him and caress my hands slowly around his sides to his stomach, pulling his back against me. “Why?”
He turns in my arms and holds me in his deepening green gaze. “It was my only path back to you.”
I swallow the pulsing lump in my throat as I slip his shirt off his shoulders. I brush my fingertips down his chest, over his chiseled abs to the button of his slacks. He watches me flick it open and drag the zipper down, then drops his head and groans as I grasp his solid erection and stroke.
He’s not gentle yanking off my panties, and the next thing I know, I’m pinned between Oliver and the glass of the window. I tug my skirt up as he lifts me off my feet and hooks my knees over his hips. As he drives himself deep, I moan, loud and satisfied. I cling to him, arms around his shoulders and heels digging into his ass. We stand here for a several beats of my pounding heart without moving, just savoring the connection.
He tips his head forward and nuzzles my ear. “I love you too, my Cheetah.”
“Then love me,” I say, my voice rough with need.
He carries me to the bed and lays me across it. Everything south of my waist contracts with the intensity of the rush when he lowers his weight onto me and seats himself to the root inside me. He pulls slowly back, then drives deep again, finding my G-spot and making me gasp. Again and again. He works it, bringing me to the peak and holding me there, right on the brink of the fall.
A desperate, wounded whimper forces its way from my core as he pulls out just before I come.
“There’s my Cheetah,” he says with a wicked smile before he slams himself home.
And then I’m crying out with my climax. He pulses inside me, and the feeling sends a warm shudder over my skin. When I open my eyes and search his out, I find them brushing over my features, as if I’m a rare piece of art.
“You are fucking incredible,” I breathe.
He laughs as he rolls off me, probably because I rarely swear. “Back atcha, Cheetah. But you have way too many clothes on.”
“That’s because you were impatient,” I say, sitting up and pulling my top over my head.
He hooks a finger into the strap of my bra and drags it down my arms. “That’s because you blow my mind. Every. Goddamn. Time.”
I get up and shimmy out of my skirt, then duck into the bathroom to clean up. When I come back to the bed, he’s naked, on his back with his fingers laced behind his head, watching me.
I crawl onto the bed and mold myself to his side. “Explain to me how you’re back from the dead.”
He wraps a strong arm around me and pulls me closer. “The day I left here, I flew from Tampa to Vegas on my fake ID, retracing my steps so if anyone found me, they’d never know where I’d been. I decided to lay low for a day and find out what my family was up to. Turns out, while I was away they started poking into things and found the hemorrhage in the book system. I guess my loving father was convinced I’d rigged it and run off with the cash.” He shakes his head with a bitter chuckle. “The man’s a moron. If I was going to scam him, it would be for a hell of a lot more than half a mil, but whatever.”
“So they were looking for you?” I ask, my fingers stroking his chest.
“Yeah. Which gave me the perfect opportunity. I called Callahan at the FBI.” He looks at me. “He was the guy who took our fathers down.”
“Yeah. I remember.” … Better than anyone knows.
“Told him I’d give him anything he wanted. Because everyone already knew Victor was gunning for me, it was easy to sell my murder. They staged the scene then flew me to Washington. I have no idea who the poor stiff was. Anyway, I met with the big guns in D.C. and ratted out Victor from top to bottom. It took the better part of a week, but they finally decided I’d given up everything. They started making arrests last week. Surprised you didn’t hear.”
The last newspaper I saw was the one Wes brought to the house. I glide my fingers up his neck to his face and slide myself up to look into his eyes. He’s really here. He’s not dead. “I never read the news. Too depressing.”
Something cold fingers up my spine with the realization that Wes might have known all along that Oliver wasn’t really dead.
Bu
t I forget all about him when Oliver kisses me. He adjusts his pillow and props an arm behind his head. “After they were done with me, they shipped me off to Safesite. Got the platinum treatment for two weeks, then they relocated me to Nebraska, of all places.” He rolls his eyes. “Only five hundred miles from Chicago and I don’t even like corn.”
I’m tracing his lips with the tip of my finger and it makes him shudder. “So how did you get from Nebraska to the boys’ underwear section of the Target in Port Charlotte?”
He cocks a brow. “The way anyone would. I got on a plane, then rented a car.”
“Oh my God!” I say when I realize. I pull out of his arms and sit up, staring down at him in dismay. “I just had sex with you and I don’t even know your name!”
“Oliver Anthony Silva.” He grins and holds out his hand. “It’s my very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I take his hand, but stop mid-shake when I register what he just said. “Silva? Mama’s name?”
He nods and his green eyes darken and go unfathomably deep as all the humor runs out of his expression. “Is that okay?”
I lower my gaze to the scar I left over his heart as I think about how Mama would feel. Slowly, a smile inches over my face as an overwhelming sense of peace floods me. “Yeah. I think so.” I lay back down, resting my head on his chest. “So what happens now?” I ask, swirling a finger around his hardening nipple.
“I’ll have to go back to Chicago to testify at some point, though they’re trying to put that off as long as possible, considering I’m technically dead. Showing up there will pretty much blow the ruse.”
I spread my hand against his chest, feeling the beat of his huge heart inside. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
There’s a long second where he doesn’t answer. “There are going to be a lot of pissed-off Mafiosi when it becomes public knowledge that I’m very much alive and very much a rat.”
Over the Line: On the Run Novel Page 19
