Defiance (The Protectors, Book 9)

by Sloane Kennedy

  My brain told my fingers to drop the damn thing so I could crush it, because anything less wasn’t safe. But my body disobeyed the order and instead, I turned the phone off and handed it to Nathan. “Leave it off.”

  I turned to head towards the hallway leading to the front door, but stopped when Nathan said, “Wait.”

  I forced myself to turn around. “What?”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  There were a million things I could have said to him, none of which included actually giving him my name. Just like with the phone, it wasn’t safe for him to know who I was.

  “Vincent,” I said.

  “Vincent,” Nathan murmured, more to himself than anything else. “Thank you, Vincent.”

  I didn’t want his thanks. I didn’t want anything from him except to eliminate the threat against him and then get the hell away from him.

  “Let’s go,” was all I said, though, and then I turned away, not really caring if he followed.

  Chapter 3

  Nathan

  I could feel blood trickling down my wrist, despite the pressure I continued to put on my hand. Strangely, though, there was no pain. The interior of the car was too dark to see how badly my hand was bleeding again, but I wasn’t about to ask Vincent to turn the lights on. Truth was, I didn’t want to know.

  Then this could all be some fucked-up nightmare that I would wake up from any second now.

  Wake the fuck up, Nathan!

  We’d walked out my front door thirty minutes earlier and I hadn’t thought to ask where Vincent was taking me. I hadn’t really cared, either.

  Probably due to the shock of it all.

  “Keep pressure on it,” I heard Vincent say, and I glanced over at him to see that he wasn’t even looking at me. How the hell did he know about my hand?

  It was a stupid question, considering all the questions I should have been asking him.

  Who the hell are you?

  What were you doing at my house?

  Why the fuck didn’t I just call the cops?

  I knew the answer to that last one. Vincent had hit the nail on the proverbial head when he’d mentioned the cops leaking their report about the attack to the press. It was a risk I just couldn’t take.

  Even if it meant I was destined to spend more time with the man next to me than I would have liked.

  And not just because he intimidated the hell out of me.

  No, I had much bigger problems than that.

  Like how it had felt to have his weight pressing down on my body, pushing me against the cold, hard granite tiles of my kitchen floor. Or the way his calloused fingers had dug into my skin as he’d held my hands down. Or that gravelly voice that had washed over me as he’d warned me not to touch him for the second time in nearly as many minutes.

  I shrugged off the thoughts that threatened to take over. I needed to focus on the here and now, not the odd sensations the man had stirred in me as he’d manhandled me into submission.

  “What were you doing at my house?” I managed to ask. My body felt hot and cold at the same time, and I had to wonder if it was from the blood loss. In theory, I hadn’t lost very much blood, but between my hand, my aching jaw, and the reminder that I’d had a knife poised just inches above my jugular less than an hour ago, that was enough to leave me feeling excessively queasy.

  “Watching it.”

  “Watching it?” I asked. “Seriously?”

  Vincent didn’t respond, and I bit back the curse word that threatened to spill forth. “You weren’t there by coincidence,” I said. “Are you a cop or something? Did Preston talk to you?”

  “You mean that weasely little campaign manager of yours?”

  While the description might fit Preston in the sense that he was short, thin, and had beady eyes and a receding hairline, he was anything but.

  “Preston Bell is one of the most respected men in the business. He’s run more successful campaigns-”

  I stopped short when I saw Vincent shake his head. “What?”

  “That supposed to impress me?” he asked. “That the guy’s good at helping you people spout your bullshit to unsuspecting Americans?”

  It was the second time he’d taken a dig at my profession. But as much as I wanted to tell him to fuck off, I was currently at his mercy since we were speeding away from Charleston into the dead of night like a bat out of hell.

  In a muscle car that had my jaw vibrating with the powerful engine’s hum.

  “Who are you?” I repeated. “And where are we going?”

  “My place,” he responded, though from his tone, I suspected he thought he was doing me a favor by even answering the question at all.

  What an asshole.

  “Stop the car,” I muttered.

  He ignored me.

  “Stop the goddamn car!”

  Still nothing.

  It wasn’t until I reached for the door handle that I got a reaction.

  A dangerous one.

  I’d been bluffing, but Vincent clearly wasn’t because in one swift move, he yanked the steering wheel to the right, sending the car skidding along the shoulder of the highway until it came to a jarring stop, all while his arm came up to slam against my neck, causing my head to jerk backwards.

  “Now either you sit there and shut the fuck up, or I will do it for you, do you understand me?”

  In my gut, I knew what my answer should have been. But when that part of me that had always kowtowed to others reared its ugly head, I grabbed his arm with both my hands, not caring that I was probably getting blood on him, and said, “Fuck you.”

  I didn’t yell it.

  Didn’t shed tears with the words.

  And I didn’t give a shit if it meant he’d follow through on his threat. I couldn’t remove his arm from my neck; he was just too strong, even with me using both my hands.

  I couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, but I could sense them on me. I gasped for air when his arm suddenly disappeared and his fingers wrapped around my throat. I knew what he wanted.

  No way in hell was I giving it to him.

  Just like with the guy who’d been about to shoot me, I wasn’t going to beg.

  Several long seconds passed, but just as I was on the verge of passing out, Vincent released me. I sagged forward and sucked in some air, and then I reached for the door handle and climbed out of the car. I didn’t even care that my bag was still in the car. I had my phone and that was all I really cared about.

  So I just started walking.

  “Brody.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks at the sound of my brother’s name. There was no traffic on the road around us, and dense forest was creeping in on us from both sides. Moonlight filtering in through the sparse clouds was the only thing lighting the ground in front of me.

  I turned around and saw Vincent leaning against the trunk of the car. There wasn’t enough light to make out his face, but I could see his stance. Arms folded, one foot crossed over the other.

  Like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  He probably didn’t.

  “What about Brody?” I asked.

  “You want to do something stupid, that’s on you. But your brother is the one who’s going to have to pay for it.”

  That had me moving.

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! Brody’s safe! I stayed away from him to keep him safe!”

  Despite the fact that I was once again in Vincent’s space, he seemed unfazed, and I briefly wondered if the man had ice running through his veins instead of something boringly human like blood.

  “I’m talking about the fact that he’ll have to live with your death.”

  His simple and calmly spoken statement had me deflating just like that. I took a few steps back because I found that standing too close to him left me feeling wholly unsettled.

  Though I wasn’t sure why.

  You know why.

  I cursed the voice in my head and asked,
“How do you know my brother’s name? I didn’t say it back at the house.”

  Vincent straightened, and then he was the one to move forward. “Nathan, at the rate you’re crashing, you’re going to be out really soon. You really want to be out here in the middle of nowhere when that happens?”

  “I have my phone,” I said mutinously, though all the words did was make me feel like a whiny child.

  “Yeah, and the second you turn it on, you might as well hang a neon sign around your neck that says Come Shoot My Ass Because I’m Too Much Of An Idiot To Know Any Better. You’ll be like that stupid girl in the creepy house that always insists on going to check out the basement full of sharp tools to make sure it’s empty.”

  While the comparison pissed me off, I knew he was right.

  “In a storm,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “She always goes down there when it’s lightning out. And the power is out, of course.”

  I couldn’t see if he was smiling, but it sure sounded like it when he said, “And her boyfriend and other friends have all mysteriously disappeared.”

  “I can’t just get in that car with you, Vincent. Not without some kind of explanation.”

  He sighed.

  Actually sighed.

  Instead of grabbing me and ordering me into the car or just ditching my ass.

  It was progress.

  Sort of.

  “Give me a couple hours to get some more distance between us and them,” he murmured. I was stunned when he reached out for my hand. I barely managed to stifle a gasp when he tightened the strip of towel around my palm to stem the bleeding.

  And it wasn’t because it hurt.

  Well, not just because it hurt, anyway.

  “When we stop for the night, I’ll fix this and answer your questions.” Before I could say anything, he added, “Some of your questions.”

  Fuck, I’d take it.

  And not because I didn’t have any other options.

  Okay, that was exactly why I was going to take it, but he didn’t need to know that. With that in mind, I stepped past him and went back to the car. Within minutes of him getting us back on the road, I leaned my head back against the headrest and then I was out.

  “No fucking way,” I said as I shook my head vigorously.

  “If I don’t stitch it, it will keep tearing open,” Vincent explained, his voice mildly irritated as he began threading a wicked-looking curved needle.

  I glanced down at my palm and sure enough, the two-inch-long cut was oozing fresh blood. My problem wasn’t with getting stitches, it was with how I’d be getting those stitches.

  Without the benefit of any kind of anesthetic.

  Or medical professional.

  It had been well after three in the morning when Vincent had none too gently shaken me awake and declared we’d arrived at our destination, which had turned out to be a rundown-looking motel that was a throwback to the disco era. Worse, it had once been some kind of honeymoon destination, since it was located near the Cherokee National Forest. I hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry at the sight of the heart-shaped mattress when Vincent had unlocked the door. When I’d declared the whole thing to be some kind of joke, he’d asked me if anyone would ever think to look for me in a place like this.

  That was an unequivocal no.

  But if they happened to see me in it, with a man no less, I could kiss my political career goodbye. When Vincent’s answer had failed to satisfy me and I’d told him as much, he’d rightly pointed out that the chances of someone recognizing me in a place like this were zero to none, especially since I could count on one hand how many cars I’d seen parked in the lot. And I highly suspected the few other guests had the same goal in mind as us.

  To remain invisible.

  I jumped when Vincent took a hold of my hand. My whole body hurt like hell, though I wasn’t sure why since it should only be my side, my jaw and, of course, my hand that had been injured.

  “Lay your hand flat and don’t move it,” Vincent said as he settled my hand palm up on the small table we were sitting at. My eyes kept straying to the hideous bed covered in red satin.

  “What the hell do people even see in a place like this?” I wondered as I looked around the room which, in addition to the god-awful bed, sported an outdated-looking jetted tub in the corner. “I mean…FUCK!” I yelled as cool liquid splashed over my hand, sending searing flashes of pain coursing up my arm. The burn didn’t last long, but it was enough that I was breathing hard to keep myself from yelling any more obscenities. If Vincent hadn’t been holding onto my wrist with an iron grip, I most certainly would have yanked my hand away.

  “What was that?” I asked once I could manage to talk again. My eyes settled on a small bottle of scotch next to Vincent’s elbow.

  “Poor man’s antiseptic,” he said calmly. “Anesthetic, too,” he added as he reached for the bottle with his free hand and handed it to me.

  I grabbed the bottle and took a healthy swig.

  “Thought Southern Baptists frowned on alcohol,” Vincent murmured as he reached for the needle. I downed another swallow of the cheap scotch and hoped like hell it would work sooner rather than later.

  It didn’t.

  I bit into my lip as Vincent pressed the tip of the needle into my skin. “You’ve been doing your homework on me,” I said once he’d pulled the needle all the way through.

  “Not like there isn’t a trove of information out there to be found,” he said as he inserted the needle again.

  I took another drink, but eased back on the urge to take a big swallow.

  “Is that how this is going to go?” I asked.

  “How what’s going to go?”

  “You answer with non-answers.”

  “You didn’t actually ask me a question,” he observed.

  I barely refrained from rolling my eyes at him. “Who are you?”

  “Next question.”

  I shook my head and put the bottle down so that I wouldn’t be tempted to drink anymore. I needed to have my full faculties for this conversation. “Were you following me?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Three days.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because you’re payback.”

  “Payback?” His answer made no sense to me.

  “A mutual friend wants to see that you keep breathing.”

  “Who? How is that payback?”

  “What’s with the drinking?” Vincent asked as he motioned to the bottle with his head. “Won’t Daddy be mad?”

  If the mention of my father hadn’t put me on edge, the sarcasm in his tone would have for sure.

  “You know what, Vincent?” I said, before waiting until he looked up at me. “Cut the bullshit you keep accusing me of spewing and tell me what the fuck is going on. Before I’m tempted to let my would-be assassin find me just so I don’t have to spend another second with you. Because you’re a real dick.”

  Chapter 4

  Vincent

  I had to admit, the guy had balls. He hadn’t even bothered to wait until I was done jabbing a needle through his skin to call me out on my behavior.

  Yeah, I knew I was being a dick. I just didn’t really care. I’d been tasked with keeping the man alive, not catering to his inflated ego or handling him with kid gloves. He had a rich family and countless kiss-asses on his staff to do that.

  Okay, so maybe the dig about his father had been a bit much, but I’d done my homework on the man, and he was the epitome of everything I hated. I’d had little interest in Chandler Wilder’s take on gay rights when he’d been governor, because I’d already known what so many gay men and women in our country had yet to accept.

  We’d never be equal.

  And we’d never be seen as anything beyond our sexual preference. There wouldn’t be a time where one guy marrying another would be referred to as anything other than gay marriage, and even then, it would be seen as an oddity, n
ot the norm. The government could say all the right things and it still wouldn’t change shit.

  I was a gay man first. I’d learned that lesson a long time ago, and it wasn’t one that I needed to repeat. The fact that the leaders of the very country David and I had sacrificed so much for only saw the fact that I preferred dick to pussy once they’d learned I’d had the audacity to hold my boyfriend’s hand for a few minutes so many years ago was proof of that. I hadn’t been Major St. James, dedicated soldier who’d saved the lives of his entire platoon more than once anymore. I’d no longer been the son of Fallon St. James, one of the most respected generals in the army, or brother to Pierce St. James, recipient of every conceivable military medal known to man. I’d been a fag first and foremost.

  And only.

  Until I’d had to make a name for myself in a whole different way.

  “Beck Barretti,” I murmured as I kept my attention on the remaining stitches I had left. Nathan was handling the pain better than I’d expected. I’d had stitches more times than I could count, and while they were never fun, I’d gotten used to them. But the first time I’d gotten them without the benefit of anesthetic when I’d been a fresh-faced cadet, I’d barely managed not to cry.

  And I’d consumed a lot more alcohol than the measly three swigs Nathan had swallowed.

  “Beck? My brother’s boyfriend?” Nathan asked in surprise.

  “One of your brother’s boyfriends,” I reminded him, just to gauge his reaction.

  But he seemed unfazed as he said, “You know Beck?”

  “I know his father and his uncle,” I clarified. “Seems your little visit to Montana a while back caused quite the stir.”

  When he didn’t respond, I looked up from my work. His eyes were downcast and he was worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

  “I needed to make sure he was safe,” Nathan said softly. “I didn’t think he’d worry…not after…” His voice dropped off.

  “Why didn’t you think your own brother would worry that your life was in danger?” I asked as I went back to work.