Hook (Neverland Novels Book 2)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  My voice is less “sexy rasp” and more “my vocal cords were run over by a train,” but the fact that I managed any sound at all is a win. John doesn’t seem to notice, though, as his eyes fly wide and he jerks his head up from the bed.

  “James! Oh, thank God.” Embracing my hand in his, he brings it up for a long, prayer-like press of his lips to the center of my palm just like he did when I was…

  …suddenly the gauzy curtain is ripped away and the details of that night rush in like a direct upload to my brain, Matrix-style. My temples start to throb with the overload of information, but that’s nothing compared to the searing pain on the right side of my body.

  “How bad?” I ask, pointedly glancing down at my chest.

  “An inch in another direction and we might not be talking right now,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “You lost a ton of blood at the scene and passed out, which nearly gave me a heart attack. The doctor said the bullet just barely missed your lung, so you were lucky, and you also have three broken ribs on your left side.

  “You made it through surgery with flying colors and they kept telling me you’d be fine but—” His eyes well up, though he manages to blink back the tears. “I was so fucking scared I was gonna lose you.”

  “Hey, come on, no more of that.” Brushing my thumb across his cheek, I wish we were back in my bed where I could hold him and kiss his worries away. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

  He nods and blows out a breath, visibly relaxing by increments as he lets go of his fears, then redirects his anxiety into a different avenue. “Can I get you anything? Maybe some water? I should probably tell the nurses you’re awa—”

  Suddenly aware of how parched I am, I pounce on the first option before he gets carried away. “Water would be good. Nurses can wait.”

  John reaches over to the side table and fills a Styrofoam cup with water from the plastic pitcher. He sticks a straw in it, then holds it to my mouth. When I scowl at the implication that I can’t even hold a damn cup myself, he gives me his cop don’t-challenge-my-authority look.

  Raising a single brow, I say, “You’re going to be more of a pain in the ass than the actual nurses, aren’t you?”

  “Only if you plan on being a pain-in-the-ass patient.”

  I roll my eyes but give in and let him help me. As usual, being fussed over by John feels both foreign as a general concept and familiar because it’s what he’s always done. And while I pretend that indulging that part of him is something I grudgingly accept, we both know I secretly take comfort in his need to dote on me. Though he’ll never get me to admit it out loud.

  Taking long pulls on the straw, the ice-cold water slides down my irritated throat like liquid heaven. After I finish the whole cup, I rest my head on the pillow and take a minute to gather the courage to ask my next question. “Smee…is he…”

  “No,” he says with a crooked grin. “He had more damage than you, but the stubborn bastard made it. He woke up a few hours ago and started hitting on the nurses—both male and female—and insisting they need to check his groin.”

  I start to laugh, then immediately regret it. Searing pain steals my breath, and the room spins for a second before settling back into place. John jumps to his feet and reaches over me. He curls my fingers around something, then helps me depress a button with my thumb. I hear a beep right before a sharp sting hits the back of my hand that has me hissing through my teeth.

  “Shit, sorry, babe. They said you might feel some slight discomfort when the medicine goes in. Obviously, that was an understatement,” he grumbles, glaring at the device like he’s filing that information away to chew someone out for later.

  Trying to keep the everything-hurts-and-I’m-dying tone out of my voice, I say, “It’s fine. Just surprised me is all.”

  “It’s your pain meds. You can press the button when you need a hit of the good stuff, but it’ll only allow you a specific dose at certain intervals.” Before he even finishes explaining, the medicine begins taking affect. “There,” he says, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he smooths the hair back from my face. “Looks like it’s working already.”

  I breathe easier with the partial relief. It’s not a magic cure, but the pain went from a screaming Level Ten down to a solid Level Four, which is probably the best I’ll get at this stage. “The bust,” I say, wanting to talk to get my mind off these remaining four levels. “What happened?”

  “The CliffsNotes version is we arrested a lot of bad guys, seized a lot of Dust, found intel on more of Croc’s associates, and got all the girls out safely. They’re in the process of detoxing and getting any other help they might need, and their families have been notified.”

  “Pirates?”

  He takes a beat before answering. “None of them surrendered.”

  The air is heavy with the words he’s not saying. If they didn’t surrender, then they didn’t survive. My reaction is the same as if John had cited the day’s weather. After years of friendship and camaraderie, their deaths would’ve bothered me a hell of a lot if they hadn’t betrayed me and left Smee for dead. But since they did, I don’t feel a damn thing. Not about that.

  However, other events of that night make my chest tight. I know what I think happened, but if I’m wrong, then this nightmare is far from over. Steeling myself for the possibility that I’m wrong, I state what I’m hoping is true. “You killed him.”

  I don’t want to speak his name for fear it’ll somehow invoke his presence, like the scary kids’ game Bloody Mary. In fact, I don’t ever want to think or speak that name again. John’s gaze drops to my chest as though he can see past the hospital gown and bandages to the spot beneath where the bullet tore through my body. The muscles tick in his jaw, and I wonder if he’s seeing the blood pooling around his fingers as we waited for help.

  Finally, he looks me in the eyes and answers. “My only regret is that I can’t do it again.”

  Warmth spreads though me. It might be the drugs working through my system, but I prefer to think it’s my visceral reaction to hearing the moment I’ve dreamed of for so long is now a reality. The moment I know without a shadow of doubt that my enemy has been vanquished and my revenge complete.

  It’s surreal that it’s finally here, that I’m finally free. So much of my life has been about fear—feeling it, avoiding it, conquering it. I have no idea what it’s like to not carry that weight around. But I can’t wait to find out.

  “It’s over,” I say gruffly, referring to so much more than just the undercover operation.

  John wraps his hands around mine and gives me a light squeeze. “It’s over.”

  My blinks are getting longer as my eyes grow heavy. But before I succumb to another mini-coma, I have one last question. “Where’s Starkey? He okay?”

  “He’s with Smee, hasn’t left his side. He was treated for some minor injuries, but that was all. Physically, he’s okay. It’s the mental stuff that’ll take longer to heal. But he will. He’ll get through this, and we’ll be there to help him in whatever ways we can.”

  Tears prick the backs of my eyes. “That day at the prison…I finally got my brother back, then lost him minutes later. He isn’t going to want my help.”

  “He will; you just need to be patient and give him time. He’ll come around.”

  I don’t have the same strength of conviction as he does, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. It’s not like I can march over there and demand to hash this out. I can’t even lift my head off the pillow anymore. Fuck, I’m so tired.

  I’m also so in love.

  I kept insisting it wasn’t possible for me to ever fall in love, but jumping in front of a bullet for a guy wearing a bulletproof vest is a pretty good indicator that I was full of shit. I wish the first time I said it hadn’t been while I was bleeding out in his arms, but I didn’t know if I’d get another chance, and I needed him to know. I also wish the second time I say it wouldn’t be w
hile I’m falling asleep in a hospital bed, but again, I need him to know. John’s been an open book about his feelings for me from day one, and while it might take me some time to be as open as he is, I owe it to him to start trying.

  Willing myself to stay awake a few minutes longer, I tug on his hand until he follows it up and leans in. He stares down at me with those honey-colored eyes that owned my black soul from the very first look, and everything inside me melts.

  “I love you, Johnathan. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. You’re the kindest, strongest, and most patient man I’ve ever known. I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.”

  His face splits into a brilliant smile as he chuffs out a short laugh and cups my jaw in his warm palm. “Always, Captain,” he whispers. “I’ll have you for always.”

  “Okay, good.”

  Unable to fight it anymore, I let my eyelids slide shut just as John presses a kiss to my forehead. As I drift along in that hazy space between sleep and lucidity, I realize that maybe John’s been right all along. I must not be the villain.

  Because this is, without a doubt, my happily ever after. And I can’t wait to start living it with the man I love.

  Epilogue

  Hook

  Six Months Later

  * * *

  “Whiskey neat.” Remembering where I am, I tack on an awkward, “Please. I’d like a whiskey neat, please.”

  As the tux-wearing bartender nods and gets to work pouring my coping-with-high-society drink into a crystal tumbler, a hard chest presses to my back. “Make that two, please.” Warm breath tickles my ear when he turns his head to speak low enough that only I can hear. “Have I ever told you how fucking sexy you are when you use your manners?”

  I almost bark out a laugh, but manage to hold it in. “Let’s see, so far today, it’s been the way my ass looks in my underwear, the murderous look on my face as I fought with my stupid cuff links, the way I strut like a peacock in a tux—which I still deny doing anything so ridiculous, much less doing it like some cocky, flightless bird—and how I feigned interest when your dad gave me a lengthy rundown of the four types of stocks needed for a diverse financial portfolio. Now it’s using my manners?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He nips at the shell of my ear. “All of those things make me hot.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Darling,” I say, turning to face him, “but you’re embarrassingly easy to impress.”

  “Am I?” John flashes me his brilliant smile—the one I’ll never get enough of in a hundred years. “Or am I just completely infatuated by everything my super-sexy and mega-amazing boyfriend does?”

  This time I can’t help the twist of my lips as I try to hide my amusement. “Hmm, I do like the sound of your reasoning better. I might even reward you for it later. If you take back the shit about me strutting.”

  John retrieves our drinks from the bartender and hands one to me. I hold his gaze over the rim of my glass as I take a sip of the smoothest whiskey I’ve ever had. Mr. Darling probably requested some brand I can’t pronounce for his daughter’s engagement party, here at London’s posh Empire Hotel. Though I’m way out of my depth at fancy functions like this, I can definitely appreciate the fancy alcohol.

  Too bad I’m only allowing myself one glass tonight. Just enough to take the edge off my nerves about what I have planned for later.

  After taking his own sip, John sighs dramatically. “I wish I could, but then I’d be lying, and a good cop never lies. It’s in the handbook and everything. Plus, the fact of the matter is, babe, you strut in a tux.”

  “I. Do not. Strut.”

  “Dude, you totally strut,” Peter interjects, crashing through our little bubble like the Kool-Aid Man on speed. When I glare daggers at him, he holds his hands up and laughs. “Whoa there, Hook, no need to make me walk the plank. I meant it as a compliment. It’s nice to see you not doing the hunched-shoulders, head-down skulking thing anymore.”

  Peter Pan is giving me compliments? Ugh, shoot me now. And what the hell am I supposed to say? Thanks for noticing I’m not as tortured as I used to be. Or, Yeah, it’s nice not waking up every day and hating my life now, thanks.

  Pan’s not the first person to mention something like that. My therapist, Bob, says I should go with just the Thanks part. He also made it a point to say that it should be free of sarcasm, though I don’t know where the fun is in that. I know they mean well (something Bob forced me to acknowledge when I got all pissy about it in one of our sessions), but it still feels weird to outwardly discuss my “progress.”

  It took me a month to get up the balls to start counseling. The first three sessions consisted of us staring at each other in silence for an hour because I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Once I finally did, it took another month before I stopped ending every session with, “Fuck this, I’m done,” to which Bob always replied with a calm, “If that’s what you feel is best.” Reverse psychology, oldest trick in the book. It worked, too, because I kept showing up, and eventually, I stopped treating Bob like he was the enemy. It’s still not easy, but quitting isn’t an option. I want to be the man John deserves; the man he already believes me to be.

  An image of Bob raising a bushy eyebrow has me mentally adding Yeah, I know, I’m doing it for myself, too. Putting myself first still doesn’t come naturally to me, but I’m working on it. Bob’s a bit of a dork, but he’s no pushover, and he doesn’t take any of my shit. My glare has no effect on him. It’s annoying as hell. I like him.

  But I’m still not thanking Pan for saying something nice, because I know him, and he’s bound to follow it up with an equally dumb—

  “Besides,” Pan says, running his hands down his lapels, “you might not be anywhere near this sexy in a tux, but you still smash the look. You have every right to strut.”

  “Ooh, gossip,” Wendy says, sliding into her place against Pan’s side. “Who struts?”

  I groan.

  Pan grins. “Hook does.”

  Wendy nods appreciatively. “Oh, absolutely, it’s very cute. Almost like he’s preening.”

  John points at his sister. “Like a peacock, right?”

  “Yes! Exactly like a peacock.”

  “I used to like you,” I deadpan at her. She laughs and abandons her fiancé long enough to kiss me on the cheek. Wendy’s as affectionate as her brother. The second she sensed I lowered my walls enough to even partially let people in, she attacked me with the longest hug of my life. I didn’t hate it.

  “Told you,” John says to me. “From surly pirate to strutting peacock. It’s like a magic trick.”

  “Careful.” He shuts up, but the smile he tries to hide behind his whiskey glass says plenty. Angling my body away from Peter and Wendy, I speak in a low voice. “Enjoying yourself, Johnathan?”

  “Immensely.”

  “And are you done now?”

  “I don’t know…” His smile widens, and there’s a devilish twinkle in his eye. “Are you done strutting?”

  I chuckle, and he joins me, thinking he’s in the clear. He’s so not.

  Keeping my focus on John, I step back into our circle and have a little of my own fun. “Hey, Pan, about how far would you say it is from here to the ballroom entrance over there. Thirty feet?”

  John’s eyes widen, and he almost chokes on his drink. He knows damn well I don’t care about the distance to anywhere. It’s our code; my way of telling John in mixed company that he’s due for thirty smacks with a paddle. The number is obvious, but each unit of length is a different implement I use to redden his ass—inches, feet, yards, and miles all correspond with hand, paddle, crop, and belt. It’s a pretty clever system, if I do say so myself.

  “From here?” Peter squints for a few seconds over at the double doors then shrugs. “I’d say closer to forty feet.”

  Nailing my man with a wolfish grin, I say, “Forty, it is.”

  Wendy’s brows knit together. “That was an odd quest— John, you look flushed. Are you feeling okay?”<
br />
  “Totally fine,” he says right before downing the last of his drink. “But I’m gonna need another whiskey.”

  “No, you aren’t, let’s go. We’re supposed to be mingling.”

  I take his glass, set both of our empties on the bar, then tell Pan and Wendy we’ll catch them later. Threading my fingers through John’s, I pull him farther into the room full of elegantly dressed guests with my night’s mission in the forefront of my mind.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” he says as he walks with me, “but since when do you want to socialize so badly?”

  “Since I know we need to make the rounds with everyone for our appearance to be counted as sufficient, and the faster we do that, the faster we can make our exit.”

  “Considering my future brother-in-law did me no favors with his gross overestimation, I wouldn’t mind waiting the few hours for the party to be over.”

  Laughing, I stop and grab John by the back of his neck, then I pull him close and kiss the sullen look off his face. “Don’t pout, baby. I’m saving that punishment for another time. I have something else planned for tonight. Something you’ll love, I promise.”

  “In that case,” he says, smiling again, “let’s hurry.”

  There has to be at least three hundred people here to celebrate Peter and Wendy’s engagement a full year after Pan popped the question. I guess they were too busy moving in together and getting Wendy’s event planning business and Pan’s custom car restoration business off the ground to plan anything until now. The wedding isn’t until next year, though, so I guess now is as good a time as any for it.

  Mr. Darling insisted on the fancy party, so he could invite the who’s who of London, which is why I know less than twenty people here, and they’re all from Neverland. For the next half hour, I let John introduce me to family, friends, and co-workers, while I play the part of his well-adjusted boyfriend, even if I feel like jumping out of my skin from all the socializing and pleasantries.