Game of Shadows

by Amanda K. Byrne

  I get out a washcloth, a towel, and the first aid kit and leave him to it. He’s an intruder. He’s not entitled to first aid.

  I need armor. A force field to shut him out. I settle for a pair of yoga pants and a hoodie, then retrieve my knife from the bedroom floor. Cleaning it takes a bit of the edge off. I ought to sharpen it too. So I don’t miss next time.

  The knife is safely stowed under my pillow when he returns. He closes the door with a barely discernible click, his mouth curled in a smirk. I’ve seen that smirk before. It was on his face the night I was supposed to kill him after I’d thrown myself at him in a misguided attempt to keep him from getting killed by someone else.

  “No need to cover up,” he drawls. “I don’t mess around with girls.”

  The cruel comment has to be deliberate, and the casual delivery buries it right in my chest. To my horror, my nose tingles with the onset of tears. I hold my breath, waiting for it to pass, the struggle to maintain a blank face harder than it should have been.

  It must show, somehow, because there’s a flash of surprise in his gaze, there and gone. “You never answered my question. How did you get in here?” My voice is steady. My heart is not. It’s wobbling all over the place.

  He wanders to the bed, the light playing off his bare chest, and I force ice through my veins. “Don’t even fucking think of sitting down.”

  He sprawls on the end of the bed, and I look at the bandage on his neck. Another half an inch, and I would have succeeded.

  “Why is that your question? Why aren’t you asking how I knew where to find you?”

  I stare at him. Waiting.

  He doesn’t leave me hanging long. “Cassidy Turner. Age twenty-one. Senior at UCLA, majoring in English with a minor in sociology. From Woodland Hills. Mom’s an attorney, dad’s a computer technician.” He sits up, his gaze locked with mine. “Nothing about your background jibes with the Cass who wrapped her legs around my waist the other night. You’re a puzzle and a loose end. I hate puzzles, and loose ends get snipped. And the locks were easy to pick. You should talk to your landlord about that.”

  I imagine his face turning purple from lack of oxygen. It’s a strangely soothing picture.

  “What are you?” Not who, but what, the question quiet and smooth, almost seductive. He slides over the bed, inching along until he’s close enough to touch. Close enough to rub his thumb over my bottom lip, close enough to skim his fingers along my jaw. Close enough connections crackle and spark in my brain, shorting out.

  I don’t think. Just react. Slam the heel of my palm into his chin, snapping his head back. I follow the movement with another strike to the neck, over the cut. He falls onto his back, and I pin him in place with my forearm pressing on his throat, air wheezing in and out. Anger burns in his eyes, and his face turns red. “I would have thought you’d be smart enough to realize you’re not going to get the answers you’re looking for from me,” I say quietly.

  He jerks up and flips us over, the anger spilling from his eyes to his face. “Bad idea. Don’t make a threat you can’t follow through on, Cass.”

  He won’t kill me. He’s had at least four chances to do so in the last ten minutes alone, and he hasn’t taken any of them. Even now, he’s more concerned with keeping my hands occupied. “Really? Like seducing the answers out of me is any better? There’s a special place in hell for men like you.” I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of struggling, but that doesn’t stop me from glaring at him.

  “I came here for you.”

  What?

  His grip is bruising. I imagine the blood pooling under my skin where his fingers clamp onto my wrists. “You know something, and if I found you this fast, you can bet whoever was at the restaurant will be looking for you, too.”

  “It took you three days to find me,” I point out.

  His smile is grim. “It took me less than twenty-four hours. You were walking toward Macgowan, draped all over someone. Looked like a douche. Improv 102. Meets at two every Tuesday and Thursday. Three credits.”

  “The amount of information you have on me is alarmingly stalkerish. All I know is an SUV was crawling along behind you, and then armed men stormed the restaurant you were standing in front of and started shooting.” I flex my fingers; they’re starting to lose feeling. “You can let go of my hands any time now.” He releases me and rolls away. I sit up, rubbing my wrists. I jerk back when he reaches for one of my hands. “Don’t.”

  He snags my hand, holding my wrist up to the light. “Shit.” The skin is darkening in spots, shaped like fingers, a bluish red color.

  I yank my hand from his. “For someone who doesn’t mess with girls, you seem to have no issues invading my personal space.” We’re getting nowhere. “What do I have to say to get you to leave? Or would you rather get stabbed again?”

  The man has the audacity to stand and walk over to my dresser. He opens the drawers, tossing clothes on the bed. “Pack a bag. You’re not coming back here until this is over.”

  Instead, I arrange my legs lotus-style, settling against the pillows. “Because leaving in the middle of the night isn’t suspicious at all. Denise will wonder where I am, and when I don’t turn up, she’ll call the cops.”

  He stalks over to the closet and sticks his head inside.

  “Nick.” When he doesn’t answer, I unfold myself and get to my feet. I hobble over and slide in between Nick and the closet, punctuating my shoves with words. “Get. Out. Of. My. Apartment.”

  He’s careful not to touch me, his gaze flitting between my face and the bruises he left. But he doesn’t head for the door. “Do you think you’re safe here? Do you think they won’t find you?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I think I’m safe for tonight. They have even less information than you. They know what I look like. Sort of. I’ll reevaluate in the morning. Besides, I can’t leave Denise here by herself.”

  His mouth thins and becomes a slash above his chin. “Fine. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  “Why?” The man gives stubborn a whole new meaning. “Why does it matter what happens to me?”

  “Because I’m in your debt, and I always repay mine.”

  I’m so tired I’m delirious. “You owe me? You owe me shit. Whatever debt you think you incurred has been paid off.”

  “Cassidy.” He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. “You risked your life to help me out. You got shot at. With those type of men, loose ends don’t just get snipped, they get cut and buried. Trust me, they’re looking for you. Think whatever you want of me, but I owe you. So yeah, you’re coming with me until they’ve been eliminated.”

  Eliminated. Who is he that he throws that word around with ease? “Gee, your enthusiasm is catching. I don’t need a babysitter. If you’re so worried, I’ll stay with my parents for a while.” The commute to campus would be hellacious. I’d deal. And it would get me away from him. But the sliver of softness and honor has wiggled its way through my defenses, and I can’t close the gap to kill it.

  It’s the proximity. The heat of his body radiates off him, his still bare chest temptingly close, and it’s scrambling my brain waves. I edge around him and start picking up my clothes, refolding them to put them away. “Go home, Nick,” I say. “I’m tired, I’ve got class tomorrow, and I don’t want to have to explain your presence to Denise.”

  “Too bad. Got an extra pillow?”

  * * * *

  A hand clamps on my shoulder. “Cass!”

  “Mmphrgh.”

  “Cassidy!” I crack open an eye. Denise is bouncing on her toes, something she does when she’s nervous. “Get up.”

  I roll onto my back. “Coffee.”

  “The most beautiful man in the world is standing at our coffeemaker. Who is he?” she whispers.

  I flip back onto my stomach. Somehow I forgot Nick had spent the rest of the night on my bedroom floor, and now I have to lie first thing in the morning. “He’s fr
om my mom’s law firm,” I mumble into the pillow. “Someone’s threatened the entire defense team for some inmate. He’s taking me to my parents for a few days.” Sitting up, I scrub my hands over my face and push my hair behind my ears. “Do you think you could stay with Charlie? I don’t want you to stay here until this is over with.”

  Her mouth trembles open, face paling. “Is it… Is it bad?”

  “It’s a precaution.” Nick walks into the room wearing just his pants and holding a white Bruins mug. The scent of coffee hits my nose, and I stumble out of bed and around Denise, making a beeline for the mug. His mouth curves in a wicked grin as he hands over the coffee. I stifle a moan at the first scalding sip. “It’s doubtful anything will come of the threat,” he continues. “Your building is secure, but we’re trying to cover every angle, and it’s possible for someone to get into the building.”

  Denise squeaks. I swallow more coffee and hand the cup back to him. “We have time for me to shower and stuff?”

  “If you’re quick about it.” He takes the coffee and leaves me alone with my roommate.

  Her skin is so pale now it’s practically translucent. “Hey. Like he said, it’s a precaution. I’ll be perfectly fine.” Thank God this happened once before. My junior year of high school, Mom got a threat from a recently paroled inmate, and we had a police car in front of the house for weeks. Everyone in my class knew about it within a day. “Nothing happened the last time, and nothing’s going to happen this time, right? I’d just feel a hell of a lot better if you’d stay with Charlie.”

  She bobs her head up and down. “Okay,” she squeaks, then clears her throat. “Okay. Um. I’ll call him in a little bit.” The mattress makes a soft whoomp when her ass hits it. “Geez, Cass. Your mom’s okay?”

  Guilt settles in my stomach as I sit next to her. “She says she is. And Dad’s looking after her. No cop car this time, at least not yet. Everything will be fine.”

  Ten minutes later, she manages to make her way out of my bedroom without falling over. I hurry to the kitchen to grab more coffee, ignoring Nick who’s leaning against the counter, all coiled strength and casual elegance. It’s kind of not fair how distractingly hot he is, even with the bandage on his neck.

  “You have ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes my ass. I pour a cup of coffee for myself and open the cupboard next to the stove for a clean bowl. I snag the cereal from on top of the fridge. “You want?” I hold up the box.

  He plucks the box from my hand. “You wanted a shower.”

  “First, I want breakfast.”

  We engage in a game of tug of war, weighted heavily in his favor, since all he has to do is hold the box above his head. When he does, I put the bowl away and open the refrigerator for the bread.

  He tries to take that, too, but I’m ready for him. I pull his thumb back and ram my elbow into his stomach, cradling the loaf of bread to me as he hunches over. I pop four slices in the double toaster. “We rush off, it’s only going to scare Denise more, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you do that.” I keep my voice low and stare at the toaster, willing it to show me a way out of this situation.

  It doesn’t. It just dings cheerfully, the toast springing up. I put two slices on a plate and hand it to Nick. “Eat.” I take the other two slices for myself and turn back to the fridge for the butter.

  He stares at his plate while I doctor my toast with butter and honey. Finally he growls. “Got any jam?”

  I find a mostly empty jar of raspberry jelly in the back of the fridge, and he gives it a dubious sniff before spreading it on his toast. We eat our breakfast in silence, and then I jump in the shower, still racking my brain for an answer. A way to lose him.

  We’re leaving when the light bulb goes off over my head. “Do you want to give me directions, or do you want me to follow you?”

  He heads for the door to the stairwell. “You’re riding with me.”

  “What about my car? Leaving it here’s a pretty big red flag.”

  He stops on the stair below me, and I stumble into his back. “Not falling for it, Cass.” That fucking smirk is back when he glances over his shoulder. “Besides, car’s already taken care of.”

  “Taken care of?” What the hell does that mean?

  He slides my bag off my shoulder and slings it over his own. “I moved it,” he says simply.

  “You what?”

  Chapter 4

  He stole my car.

  The bastard stole my car.

  He broke into the underground garage, hotwired my car, and drove away. Left my poor, defenseless, in-demand Honda someplace where it would likely end up trashed.

  Naturally, going anywhere with him is out of the question.

  The man is nothing if not prepared, and he drags me out onto the street after tackling me on the floor of the garage. Yeah, I ran. He ran faster. I blame my injured ankle. He wrestles me into his BMW and slaps a pair of handcuffs on me—fuzzy ones, bright fuchsia—and chains me to the door so I can’t escape.

  I’ve been kidnapped by the guy I was paid to kill. There are so many things wrong with this picture I don’t even know where to begin.

  Streets roll by, Nick turning left or right without any indication of where we’re actually going. “Who are you?” It’s a question a normal person would have asked a long time ago. Up until the moment he cuffed me, though, I shielded the flame of hope I would still manage to pull this off. Behind schedule, but I could still slip into the headspace necessary to complete the job and prove to Turner, and myself, that I could do this.

  “Wondered when you were going to ask. Dominic Kosta.” He says it like I’m supposed to know what that means.

  I don’t. It’s a name. Sounds Greek. “And?”

  The car jolts to a stop at a light. Nick twists slightly in his seat to face me. His scrutiny is intense, eyes narrowed, taking in every line of my face and long enough the light changes and horns blare. “My family owns most of this city,” he says slowly.

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  He puts the car in gear and shoots through the intersection. We careen into an empty lot. He parks, unclips his seatbelt, and shifts around in the seat. Not so easy to do, given how tall he is. “You can drop the act.”

  What act? “What are you talking about?” I jerk my hands up. “Could you uncuff me?”

  “No. And I’m talking about the whole naive thing. You know shit. You knew what, if not who, those men were. You knew how to get out of there. Last night? Another inch, you probably would have sunk that knife into an artery. And you fucking nearly broke my thumb this morning.”

  “Nick.” Maybe if I talk slow and clear, he’ll understand me. “I don’t know who you are. This”—I jerk my hand up, pointing at my face—“is not an act. Will you please tell me what’s going on? You own most of the city? What, you’re a real estate mogul?”

  He stares, then barks out a laugh, the bitter sound ending on a soft groan. His hair’s sticking up where he ran his hands through it, and if my hands were free, I’d be all over that, letting the silky locks play over my skin.

  “Stop lying. You stop, I’ll uncuff you.”

  Anger surges, fanning out through my chest, igniting everything in its path. “What? What the fuck do you think I know? What do you think I am? I’m a fucking college student. English major, remember? I go to class, I party, I sleep. I happen to kill people for a living. That’s pretty much the sum total of me. Would you stop being so obtuse and just fucking tell me what I’m supposed to know?” The long chain on the cuffs rattles as my hands move. This is a nightmare. All it needs are spiders. I hate spiders.

  Regret splinters the rage, and I slump in the seat. If only I stayed home that night. If only I walked away instead of run to him. If only I did my job. If only I never set eyes on him or his stupid picture. If only, if only, if only.

  If only I never started on this road in the first place.

  The thought threaten
s to twine itself around my mind, drag it down, and now is not the time for hindsight. I turn away from him, giving him as much of my back as I’m able to. “There’s only one person I can think of who might be able to help you.” I recite the address, staring out into the overgrown lot.

  The weight of his hand on my shoulder is heavy. I try to move away from it, edging as close to the door as I can get. He clasps my shoulder. “You kill people for a living.”

  Killed. Past tense. Sort of. “Yeah. I kill people for a living. Or spending money, anyway.”

  His hand presses down, pushing my shoulder into the seatback, and he holds me in place, forcing me to look at him. “You kill people for a living,” he repeats.

  I stare at him. “Is that so hard to believe?” I ask softly. “After everything that’s happened?”

  He edges away, slouching down in his seat. “Yes. No.” Weariness laces his tone, along with something like disgust. I can’t blame him. I’m pretty disgusted with myself, too. “I figured you had to be connected somehow,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting that, though.”

  The car fills with the sounds of traffic from the nearby street—window-shaking bass, the occasional horn, a truck rumbling by. The chain on my cuffs clanks as I pull my hands up. “Nick? Please?”

  He digs the key out from the pocket of his jeans before dropping it onto my lap rather than handing it over. Or, heaven forbid, actually unlocking the cuffs himself. “My family controls most of the criminal activity in LA. Drugs, weapons. Some of my cousins run escorts, chop shops for high-end cars. If it’s illegal, we’re in it.”

  “Like the mafia?” The cuffs make a faint click as they open, and I ease them off my wrists, inspecting the skin. The silly pinky-purple fur protected me from any further marks, though my bruises are throbbing.

  “LEOs call it ‘organized crime.’” He eyes the cuffs dangling from the door. “Probably shouldn’t have done that.”

  I unclip my seatbelt and reach for the door handle. “No, you shouldn’t have.”