Game of Shadows

by Amanda K. Byrne

  “You can call me Nick.” His focus never wavers from my thigh.

  Crap. I didn’t actually mean for that question to come out. “Nick.” Knowing his name will make it harder to kill him. Fantastic. “Thanks for this. You really didn’t have to stick around.”

  “Right. Do I look like a monster? Those men would have eaten you alive. Besides, I owe you.”

  I don’t have an answer for that.

  He tosses the used towels on the floor and gathers the stuff he set out. He squeezes the edges of the wound together and reaches for a bandage. Warm. Way too warm, his hand on my leg, the rest of him close enough I can smell him. Cinnamon. Unusual. Intoxicating. “Do you think we’ll be able to get past the cops? I mean, if they’re still out there? I’ve got a paper to finish.” Maybe if I focus on my assignment I won’t notice how good he smells.

  “A paper?” He glances over, our eyes locking for a brief moment. “You’re a student?”

  “Yeah. I’ll graduate in the spring.”

  He smooths the first of the butterfly bandages over the wound. “UCLA? USC?”

  “UCLA.” I shut my eyes, giving in to the fatigue and pain clouding my mind.

  “Thought you looked young,” he muttered. “What’s your name?”

  Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow. The wound burns more the longer he pinches the edges together. He can’t get those bandages on fast enough. I open my mouth to lie, and the truth falls out. “Cassidy. Cass. I go by Cass.”

  “Cass.” He strokes a hand down my leg, closing it around my swollen ankle. “Shift onto your back for me, and we’ll get this wrapped.” He lifts his head enough to meet my gaze. “Then you can tell me how a college student gets through a gunfight unfazed.”

  Chapter 2

  I roll onto my back, propping myself up on my elbows. “Pretty easy to do when you grow up in a violent neighborhood.” I nod to my ankle. “I can wrap that myself. Thanks for playing nurse.”

  He ignores me again and reaches for the Ace bandage. My ankle’s so hot and swollen I can barely feel his hands.

  “Where’d you grow up?”

  “East Coast.” Always lie, except when it’s better to tell the truth. Giving him my name is safe enough. No one would suspect a student is an assassin, and telling Nick about my studies will get him off my back. He doesn’t need to know anything more.

  Nick. He should have remained nameless. Just the target. Now I’m going to have to return the money. Dammit.

  “East Coast covers a lot of territory.” He tucks the end of the bandage into place.

  “It does.” I scoot up and swing my legs over the edge of the sofa, gingerly putting my weight on my injured leg. “Thanks. Again. You didn’t need to do any of this.” I hobble over to my jeans and sneakers. Getting my pants on might be a bit of a problem. I lean against the table and wiggle them on, wincing in pain as the fabric catches the edge of the gauze covering my wound. I shove my feet into my sneakers and straighten my shirt.

  He’s still kneeling on the floor, his expression neutral, eyes alert and intense. The urge to sigh is ridiculously strong. I am not a sigher. Or a swooner. Yet he makes me want to do both. I settle for jerking my thumb toward the door. “I’m out. Try not to get yourself shot.”

  I catch a flash of his smile before I turn and limp for the hallway. Getting back to my car is going to be an adventure. The circuitous route I’d mapped out adds about ten extra blocks. On a banged-up leg, it’ll seem even longer.

  “Cass.”

  Sin. Sin itself, the way my name sounds rolling off his tongue. I glance over my shoulder, only to find he’s right behind me. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Oh, no. I’m not spending any more time than necessary in this man’s presence. “I’ll be fine. Plenty of people still out. Besides, it might be safer for you if you were alone. If those guys come back, I’ll only slow you down.”

  Apparently, this is the wrong thing to say because his face becomes dangerously blank. “Hold on.” He wraps his black canvas jacket around my shoulders, and I slip my arms into the sleeves, breathing in his scent. It goes straight to my head, makes me woozy and want things I can’t have. Like him.

  He’ll never be a job for me.

  I’ve turned down jobs before. Turned down every job in the last year, but I rarely abort one. Shit like that gets around, and people start wondering if you’ve got the balls to do this sort of thing anymore.

  I’m wondering if I’ve got the balls to do this anymore.

  He winds his arm around my waist, shifting some of my weight onto him, and we hobble to the back door.

  The alley is quiet and empty, and I point left to the opposite end of the alley. Maybe if we’re lucky, there’ll be another break we can walk through, dump ourselves back into the busy street. With the bandage around my ankle, I can walk okay, so I focus on the low burn left from the bullet grazing my thigh. It’s better than getting distracted by the feel of Nick next to me, his body a warm, hard line, his hold sure.

  His hand pressing on my hip. Pressing me closer to him. Scrambling my brain.

  I jerk away, trying to put some distance between us. “Stop it,” he murmurs. “Fastest way to get out of here is if you let me help you.”

  “There’s no reason for you to help me at all,” I grumble. “I’m perfectly capable of walking back to my car.” Please, oh please, leave me alone before I do something stupid. Like throw myself at you.

  “You don’t think they’d recognize you? After the stunt you pulled?”

  “No, I don’t. They saw me mostly from the back. Here.” I stop, and he drops his arm. Plucking the pins from my hair, I tuck them into a pocket and run my hands through the soft blond waves floating over my shoulders. I limp forward a few steps. “Look like the same person to you?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  I shoot him a glare—I know the difference is enough to make someone think twice, and if he’s anything like me, he does too.

  “But the bigger reason is a woman shouldn’t be wandering around in the dark by herself.”

  I stumble into him when he snags me again, and he tightens his hold on my waist to keep me from falling.

  “Or don’t the boys you play with know better?” The quiet taunt is delivered straight into my ear, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the retort inside.

  Focus on the pain. I dig my fingers into my thigh. A fresh lance of it races down my leg, the burn rising anew. “All this talk isn’t getting me to my car any faster.”

  “And you still have a paper to finish if I remember.” He squeezes my hip.

  The walk is slow. Very slow. We don’t try to make conversation on the way, and I scan the street, every cell on alert for trouble. Instead of the route I’d planned, we head straight to my car. Circling and winding around would draw unwanted questions. If I’m lucky, Nick won’t ask me anything else.

  My Honda is where I left it, sitting under a streetlight and in one piece. I poke him in the side to say See? I know what I’m doing.

  He just grunts.

  I fish my keys out of my pocket and unlock the door, unable to hold back the grimace as I lower myself into the driver’s seat.

  “What’s your paper about?”

  “Sociological theory’s roots in Marxism.” Go ahead. Try to trip me up. You’ll fail. “Do you want me to wait with you until your cab shows up?”

  He braces himself on my open door and leans down, his face inches from mine. “Why would I need to call a cab?”

  “Because your car might be recognized. You might be followed.” Duh.

  His gaze sharpens and, too late, I realize my mistake. Violent neighborhood might explain away my cool under fire, but knowing enough to abandon your car? I shrug. “At least that’s what always happens in the movies.”

  One blink, two, and he chuckles, the sound low and smooth. A shiver snakes its way down my spine.

  “Go on. I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.�
�

  I snort and reach for the door handle, my arm brushing his legs in the process. “Mind moving?”

  He steps back and shuts the door for me, then slips his hands in his pockets. My car starts with its usual growl and sputter, and I ease away from the curb, Nick in my rearview, growing smaller and smaller. What’s he doing? Memorizing my license plate number? It won’t get him anywhere. I switched out the plates before I left this evening.

  The streets are mostly quiet as I take the long way out to Santa Monica. I pull into a drive-thru for a soda, then drive on to my usual spot.

  I love the ocean. Not the beach, but the ocean, the wild scent, the crash of waves. There’s a stretch that’s deserted north of the pier most nights. It gives me a much needed place to pull myself from the blank, cold space I inhabit while I’m working, to regular old Cass, college student. The absolute black of the water is soothing, and I lean against the hood of my car, listening to the water break itself into pieces on the sand, ignoring the faint gleam of bonfires farther down the beach.

  Push, pull. Push, pull. The water’s rhythm takes a little of the hit away, nudging another part of my other self into place.

  Theory. Marxist theory, leading into Hobbes’ Leviathan, and—

  Dark eyes, warm skin, the smell of cinnamon.

  Who am I trying to kid? I couldn’t force myself into the game tonight. I was never in it to begin with. Not since his picture sparked my curiosity. Turner always says curiosity has no place in this business, but everything about this job was designed to pique my interest.

  “Fuck.” After setting my drink on the hood, I rip off the jacket and ball it up, ready to toss it onto the beach for some homeless guy to find. The stiff fabric bunches under my hands, and a gust of wind rushes over me. It might be early October, but it’s not warm enough to be sitting by the ocean in a tank top. I put it back on, throw the rest of my soda in the trash, and get into the car. If I’m lucky, Denise will be at Charlie’s place tonight, and I won’t have to explain the bloody rip in my jeans or why I’m now in possession of a man’s jacket.

  By the time I pull into the parking garage, I’m exhausted. I want a shower and my bed. Screw the paper. I’ll turn it in late. Denise is gone, thank God, which means I don’t have to hold back the whimpers as I strip aside my clothes and peel away the gauze covering the bandages.

  The wound is angry, red, and almost as swollen as my ankle. He did a good job patching me up, though. I probably won’t need stitches. I find some medical tape and a roll of plastic wrap and tear off a piece. I tape it over the wound to keep it dry.

  Hot water pounding over my shoulders, I tip my head back and let it run down my face. The fatigue rinses away with the soap, and as I climb out of the shower and dry off, I think I might be able to knock out the rest of my paper.

  Three hours later, I crawl into bed, mind fried. That was a bad idea. I’m about to turn in the shittiest paper in my college career, but I can’t bring myself to care.

  * * * *

  “So how do you think you did?” Scott stuffs his notebook in his messenger bag and slings it across his chest.

  “Failed, most likely,” I admit. Professor Thomas sprung a surprise quiz after we’d turned in our papers. “You?”

  “I think I did all right. Better than I did with the paper, anyway.” He follows me out into the hall, dodging around a clump of students. “You okay? You’re limping.”

  “Twisted my ankle running yesterday. I don’t think I sprained it, though that doesn’t make it easier to walk on.” His arm sneaks around my waist, and I give him a bland look. “Cute. Real cute.”

  Scott’s a friend, and he’s been trying to get me to go out with him since the beginning of the year. He’s a nice guy, good looking, smart, fun to talk to. There’s just no spark. Before last night, I sort of hoped one might spring up like magic. I mean, if I were to pick a guy to be into, he’d be it. I’m just…not. To be honest, we’ve been friends too long for me to think of him as anything else.

  And after last night? Let’s not go there.

  “I’m doing a nice thing for you.” He grins. It brings out his dimple, makes his eyes light up. I wonder if Nick’s eyes do the same when he’s happy.

  There is a rather awkward conversation in my future. That hopeful glint in his eyes is going to sputter out because of me. I take his hand and move his arm from around my waist. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m okay. Just no excess walking.”

  The grin drops away, replaced by a crestfallen look. “You’re never going to say yes, are you?”

  I shake my head. “Wouldn’t you rather be with a girl who says yes the first time?”

  He manages a half smile. “I guess.” His lips push up into a full-fledged smile. “Seriously, though, let me help you, okay? Your next class is halfway across campus, right?”

  It is, and it’s a walk I’m not looking forward to. So he slips his arm around my waist and takes some of my weight, entertaining me with a story about his roommate’s drunken antics from last night as we walk to my next class.

  “How is it he hasn’t gotten arrested yet for public intoxication or whatever?” I ask. Jeff’s an idiot. He thinks any day ending in the letter Y is a good day to get wasted. I’ve seen him stumbling around campus hung over more than once. I don’t know how he’s still in school.

  “I guess I didn’t tell you about the last party Jeff threw. Cops came, broke it up, people wandered back in, cops came again, made a couple of arrests, including Jeff. He told them to wait a minute, then proceeded to do a keg stand. Pretty sure he puked in the back of the patrol car.”

  Ew. “Who bailed him out?”

  “Parents, I think. They’ve done it before.”

  We walk the path to Macgowan, Scott supporting most of my weight at this point. I squint up at him as he turns into me.

  “You okay from here?” he asks.

  Other than my ankle is throbbing, I’m fine. “Go. You’ll be late for class.” Our parting hug is awkward, and I give him a feeble smile before he walks back the way we came. For a second, I consider calling after him, telling him I’ve changed my mind. I even get as far as opening my mouth before I snap it shut again. He deserves a girl who says yes the first time. Not one who’ll take him as a consolation prize.

  I hobble to a nearby bench and sit, roll up my pant leg, and untie my shoe. Rotating my ankle strengthens the throbbing. Definitely swollen. Shit. Looks like there’s a night of ice and elevation ahead of me. I tighten the bandage and wiggle my toes, making sure it’s not tight enough to cut off the circulation.

  Shoe tied, pant leg rolled down, I scan the entrance to the hall. There’s a steady stream of people leaving and entering, and through the breaks, I catch glimpses of a man propping himself up on the wall. Tall, built, dark hair, a finely sculpted jaw. My heart stutters. It’s not him. Can’t be. How the hell did he find me?

  I get to my feet and hurry up the sun-dappled walk to the entrance, doing my best to ignore the pain. It can’t be him. We don’t have any unfinished business, no reason to see each other again.

  By the time I reach the front doors, there’s no one there.

  Chapter 3

  I’m awake. Why am I awake?

  That. That noise. A noise that basically isn’t a noise, a hint of sound, like an invisible mouse scampering across the carpet.

  I slip my hand under my pillow and wrap my fingers around the knife handle. I whip my arm out, aiming for flesh and not stopping until the blade bites into the intruder’s neck. The intruder rips the knife from me and yanks my hand over my head.

  It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the fuzzy dark of my bedroom, but I don’t need it. His scent gives him away. “You know, you’d do a much better job of sneaking up on people if you didn’t wear cologne.” The cinnamon is more subtle than cologne, though. Aftershave?

  “When it comes to personal safety, most people go with alarms. Baseball bats. Not knives.” H
e releases my wrist and flicks on my bedside lamp. A thick line of red drips along the side of his neck, catching on the collar of his shirt. “Let me guess. Your violent neighborhood taught you to sleep with a knife under your pillow and how to use it in the event you were attacked in your sleep.”

  “Something like that,” I say wryly. I study the wound. The blood flow is sluggish. Missed the carotid. Turner wouldn’t be pleased. “How did you get in here?” The building is secure. We don’t have a balcony—at my insistence—and there’s a heavy-duty deadbolt on the door I installed myself. Any more than that would bring questions from my roommate that I didn’t want to answer.

  Crap. Denise.

  “You better not have woken my roommate.” I sit up, push aside the blankets, and hop out of bed, my ankle buckling under my weight. I catch myself before he can and limp to the door.

  I stand in the middle of the darkened living room, peering into the shadows. Denise’s door is closed, our apartment as still and as silent as it can get in the middle of Los Angeles at God knows what hour of the night. The front door is locked, both the button lock and the deadbolt. We’re on the fourth floor. The only way to get through the window is with a ladder.

  Nick walks out, and I frown and point at the bathroom. I don’t want him dripping blood on the carpet. He clicks on the light, as I shut the door behind us, nudging him to the toilet.

  His shirt lands on the floor, and I curl my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. His chest is so…guh. There. Tan and muscled and tempting. Getting shut in a confined space with someone you want to lick all over is difficult. Getting shut in a confined space with someone you want to lick all over who hasn’t demonstrated the same urges toward you while wearing nothing but a tank top and panties is several steps beyond difficult. I should have pushed him out the door. Or made certain the knife sliced through his neck.