Audition

by Skye Warren

  I’m doing a little reconnaissance on his properties.

  I open the door, expecting to see a couple of rough-hewn bastards fighting or training. They might even take a swing at me. We’re all a bunch of army bastards, more comfortable using our fists than our words.

  Instead I’m struck by the sight of a body in motion, but not in violence.

  She’s dancing. Grace. Strength. And completely inappropriate to this place—desire. It’s nothing so base as tits and ass, though I’m sure hers are lovely. No, it’s the sweep of her calf and the indent at her waist. The lift of her chin.

  I could not be more shocked if I had been punched. Or shot.

  It feels a little bit like being dunked in lava, watching her dance. I’m immobile in the doorframe of the warehouse. My sanity is one step behind me, utterly gone. I’m seeing visions. She can’t be real. I don’t even want her to be real. This kind of beauty doesn’t belong in the goddamn gutter. A pale pink leotard against the dinge-dark hollow. Satin ballet shoes pushing into the dirt. Slowly, very slowly, my sluggish mind searches the perimeter. Alone. We’re alone. If anyone had wanted to shoot me, they’d have had plenty of time. An eternity while I’d been staring.

  Her spin slows, like a top that’s run out of momentum. Dark eyes meet mine. Surprise. A flash of something else—anger. She drops to flat feet. No longer a goddess, a blur. She becomes a woman. “No,” she says. Then again, “No,” with such force I glance behind me in case someone’s charging at her wielding a knife. The shipyard is empty. It’s only my company she’s objecting to.

  Well, you can’t fault her for taste.

  “Normally I have to say something for women to hate me,” I say, strolling into the warehouse, pretending my heart doesn’t thud at the sight of her lithe body. Pretending my cock isn’t a breath away from rock-hard. “I have to say something about their tits or their ass.”

  Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t seem particularly shocked by my crude language. No, she wouldn’t be. Not in this place. She would have heard much worse. “I told him no more guards.”

  “You told who?”

  “Who else?” she says. “Your boss.”

  My boss? I work for the US government. My job is to drive around godforsaken deserts and pray I don’t get blown up by a bomb buried underground. If I play my cards right, I might move into special operations. That’s what was implied before I went on leave. Go along with what Caleb Lewis offers. Collect information. Report back.

  It’s a chance to be somewhere other than the bottom rung. Maybe the only chance I’ll ever get. Which means I have no business being interested in this girl. She probably isn’t even eighteen. “My boss,” I repeat, my voice flat.

  “Isn’t that why you’re here? To guard me?”

  “Why don’t we do this—you dance again. I’ll stand here, but if anyone attacks you, I’ll just let them have at it. No bodyguards for you.”

  She’s not amused. “The guards aren’t there to protect me. You’re here to keep me in the warehouse or keep me at home. Make sure I don’t wander away. Make sure I don’t talk to anyone.”

  “You’re talking to me.”

  “You tell Caleb we had a deal. And it doesn’t include some—” Her narrowed gaze sweeps down my body, as if she’s only now noticed that I have a body. “Some overmuscled asshole on steroids.”

  I put my hand over my chest. “Direct hit. I’m wounded you think I’d resort to steroids. These muscles were earned the old-fashioned way, thank you very much.”

  She snorts, which somehow sounds feminine and delicate. “I’m sure you do much worse things than steroids. And there is no way, absolutely no way, that you’re going to be my new guard, so tell Caleb he can forget it.”

  “Would it put your mind at ease to know he didn’t send me?” Though I’m curious how he’s connected to her. We enlisted at the same time. Went through basic at the same time. We’ve never been close, really. When we both had leave, I was surprised he offered for me to hang out with him in New Orleans. I accepted because I have nowhere else to go. At the time I had no idea that I’d be approached by some special department to gather intel for them. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out Caleb’s into some bad shit.

  “Right,” she says, unconvinced. “So you’re standing in the one warehouse that doesn’t contain anything illegal because…?”

  “Total coincidence. I was looking for the illegal stuff.” Which means I have no business staying to chat with this woman, no matter how compelling she looks with that notch between her eyebrows. She looks goddamn fierce. “Honestly.”

  A roll of her eyes. “Tell my brother he doesn’t need to waste time and energy watching me. I’m staying out of trouble.”

  Her brother. Jesus. If she’s Caleb Lewis’s sister, then she’s not staying in trouble. It won’t be a clean shot that brings him down. It’ll be a grenade launcher that hits him—metaphorically speaking. Or literally speaking. Everyone in his vicinity will end up in jail or dead. That’s inevitable.

  And she’s right here.

  Don’t fucking feel bad for her. For all I know she knows all about her brother’s misdeeds. She might even participate in them. She could be his right-hand man.

  I don’t want to feel bad for her, but I can’t control the heavy beat of my heart. She shouldn’t be in this dump. She shouldn’t be left unguarded. I know better than to let a pretty face or a tight ass make me vulnerable, but I can’t help thinking she wouldn’t do that. As if her dancing has shown me a window to her soul. You’re a dumb motherfucker, North.

  “You’ll have to tell him yourself,” I say, taking a large step forward. Circling her. Forcing her to turn to face me. “I’m not working for him. I’m here on leave. He invited me to come drink and fuck around for a couple weeks.”

  Her dark eyes shutter. “You’re in the army with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Say no to whatever he offers you.”

  What exactly will he offer me?

  Some kind of job, that much I know. Something illegal.

  I’m tempted to grab the next flight out of Louisiana right now. I don’t want to become a snitch, not really, but I have no loyalty to Caleb. The fact that this girl wants to protect me, that she wants to warn me, when she doesn’t even know me, turns my stomach to stone. Her feline grace makes me hard. The faint scent of lavender makes me hard. In other words I’m two seconds away from pushing her down into the dirt and fucking her. I could make her like it. Judging from the way her breasts rise and fall in rapid rhythm, she already does.

  “What do you think he’s going to offer me?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “No? I thought you might want a partner for your lovely ballet studio.” I peer into the dusty corners. A few broken shipping pallets. Some flattened boxes. Quite a few scurrying shadows. The richest man in fifty square miles, and his sister practices ballet in a goddamn hovel. How many AK-47s did he have to sell to afford this prime piece of real estate? The least he could do is spring for some air-conditioning.

  “Where I practice is none of your business.”

  “And the business of anyone who walks in here.”

  “I thought you worked for Caleb.” She makes a face. “I’m still not sure you don’t.”

  “A bit of hired muscle, that’s what you thought. A bouncer at his nightclub of ammunition and white powder. I don’t think he’d like to hire me. I don’t take orders very well. Besides, if I got my paycheck from Caleb Lewis, I wouldn’t be able to do this to his sister.” It’s meant to be a threat. To make her flinch. She’ll put her fists up. She’ll fight me. I loom over her, threatening. If I’m half the thug she thinks I am, she should be wary. In fact I’m worse. Instead her head tilts up. Her dark eyes dare me. I’ve never turned down a fucking dare.

  I have a million graphic images of her in my head. The ways I’ll bend that flexible body. The hard fuck I’d give her up against the burning hot wall of the tin box we’re in. It’s coarse and
disrespectful. There isn’t a sweet bone in my fucking body, but somehow my lips meet hers. It’s a kiss, more innocent than anything I’ve ever done before—more terrifying, too. She’s warm beneath my lips. Pliant. I brush against her slightly, savoring the tremor in her body, the cool rush of her sharp inhale.

  “We shouldn’t,” she says, her Louisiana accent think as sorghum. Even if I hadn’t known where she came from, by virtue of her brother’s origins, I would recognize the distinctive lilt.

  “Of course we should.” My voice comes out thick and low. Arousal makes me rougher, usually. Enough that I can slap a woman’s ass and have her begging for more. I slip my hand behind her neck, as gentle as if she’s made of spun sugar. I can’t break her. I can’t let her crack. “We’re alive, aren’t we?” A kiss to her bottom lip, soft enough to make my eyes burn. So goddamn sweet. “You and I, we’re surrounded by violence. Surrounded by death. Both of us hurting people just to survive, but this isn’t hurting anyone.” I kiss the corner of her mouth. There’s a shudder through her body. Then she kisses me back—an urgent, artless press of her lips against mine. It’s innocence and hope and a painful stab in my chest.

  I lied before. It’s hurting me, how tender I feel toward this stranger. It’s torture.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Caleb Lewis stands in the doorway. The man I came here to meet. The man I came here to kill. This woman’s brother. She moves her body in front of me—protecting me. Jesus. When’s the last time someone protected me? Not since I was a dumb kid, and my brother took our father’s punch meant for me. Then he grew up and enlisted, and I learned how to fend for myself.

  There is nothing this slender slip of a woman could do to defend me against her drug lord brother. Nothing I would let her do, but the idea that she’d try to protect me makes my throat burn.

  I step around her, approaching Caleb with a cocky smile. It helps to have people underestimate you. “There you are. I figured I’d have a taste of this fine piece since you made me wait.”

  He scowls. “That’s my little sister, you fucker.”

  How could I have known? my expression says, hands raised in helpless amusement. I’m the kind of dirtbag who makes a pass at every woman, who doesn’t take no for an answer. Exactly the kind of bastard you do business with. “Sorry, man. I thought she was fair game.”

  There’s nothing fair about this woman. She’s threatening. Not with guns and knives. I know how to defend against that. She’s dangerous because she makes me feel things.

  That’s what’ll get you killed on a job—distraction.

  Caleb Lewis frowns. He doesn’t look much like his sister. They have the same coloring, but her features are delicate while his are rough. Her eyes are guileless while his are full of shadows. “I’ll give you the tour I promised, but you stay the fuck away from Bethany.”

  I glance back at the woman who’s already dipped into a graceful plié, her face in profile. Bethany. That’s her name. The woman who turned my fucking world upside down.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A professional ballerina wears out 100 to 120 pairs of pointe shoes in a season.

  Bethany, present time

  The temptation overwhelms me. It’s enough to steal my breath, to weaken my muscles. How easy would it be to put myself into this man’s keeping? Whatever else he is, he’s strong enough to protect me from harm. Except I know what else he is—mercenary. Pretty much heartless. He would protect me for a price far too high.

  I’m still paying for the last time I let him help.

  “I have to pee.”

  He blinks, his green eyes startled. For once I’ve managed to surprise this man. He’s worried about threatening letters, not something mundane. Like bathroom breaks. “You do,” he repeats, his voice flat.

  I push aside my bulky jacket, its size more for the train than the weather, revealing my performance clothes underneath. “I dressed for the show six hours ago and couldn’t change after because of the ball. Kind of hard to go with a leotard and tights.”

  An athlete doesn’t blush about such basic body functions. That’s what I tell myself as my cheeks turn hot. His low laugh makes it worse. “Then go, sweetheart. I’m not stopping you.”

  “And I have to change,” I add, grabbing jeans and a T-shirt from the stack of clean clothes on the shelf. I shove them into my messenger bag. It’s not that strange to bring a bag into a shared restroom. I keep my shampoo and bodywash in a caddy for easy transport. Anything left on the thin shower shelf ends up taken anyway. So Josh has no reason to object when I open the door to my apartment and cross the small hall to the bathroom, still fully dressed in coat and shoes.

  I close the door behind me, staring blindly at the window that’s perpetually cracked open. Large enough for a body to fit through. Barely. I’ll make it work. After I pee, because I really do have to go. I try not to think about how long Josh will wait for me before he realizes I’m gone.

  You’re coming even if I have to carry you out.

  Joshua North isn’t a man who makes idle threats. I figured that out a long time ago. As tempting as it is to imagine that he represents safety, I know better. There’s no safety—not in the tiny Toulouse or the rebuilt New Orleans. Not in the whole world. There’s no safety, but I’m after something else. Redemption.

  The chance to breathe without this terrible weight on my chest.

  I change my clothes without much fanfare. My muscles have tightened up because I didn’t do my usual cooldown stretching routine, but there’s no time for that. Instead I reach up, high enough that my fingertips brush the popcorn-textured ceiling. That will have to be good enough. Next I crank the metal handle until the window’s as wide as it can get.

  This is basic acrobatics. Pretend these are bars in a gym. This is part of a dance routine.

  I hook my fingertips over the tile edge and pull. Then I’m pushing through the space the same way someone dives into water, arms first, holding my breath. The textured glass presses against my breasts. I wriggle against it harder and gain an inch. Then two. It’s easier through my waist, but my hips are the hard part. No amount of sucking in my breath will make them smaller. In the end there’s a heavy pain through my side. Enough that I’ll be bruised come tomorrow.

  There’s a two-story drop onto the awning below. Another fifteen feet to the floor. You’re an acrobat. Be light and quick and strong. The voice sounds like my grandmother, with her smoker’s rasp and thick accent. I study the jumps. One wrong move and I break my arm. Or worse.

  My heartbeat slows. My focus narrows. It’s the exact same thing that happens when I’m about to perform. It’s the same thing that happens when you see Joshua North. That one doesn’t sound like my grandmother. It sounds like me.

  I leap from the window, and I know the angle’s right, I feel it from the moment my foot leaves the brick—until my messenger bag catches on the window’s ledge. I’m yanked back. Not light or quick or strong. My body lands hard against the building. Thud. Then I’m slipping and sliding down the awning. There’s the sound of a tear. Then I land hard on the ground. Not my most graceful maneuver, but not bad considering I’m holding an uneven weight.

  Without pausing to see if anyone saw me, I set off briskly in the direction of the train. Once I make it on, I can go anywhere. Such as the stately brownstone where Marlena lives. The good news is that it isn’t listed under her name. Which means Josh won’t be able to find me there.

  I only hope Scott Castle doesn’t read too much into my late night arrival.

  A threesome is really not in the cards.

  Josh, present time

  I grew up in a town too small to appear on most maps. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Which means everyone knew that the North boys were wild animals. The single-wide that groaned every time a brisk wind ran through, the field thick with burs and trash—that was our forest. We ran and fought and grew like goddamn weeds. Didn’t matter that there was
hardly ever food in the pantry. We turned big and strong anyway.

  My brother left to join the army as soon as he could. I stuck around as long as legally required until I could do the same. When I took the entrance exam at the high school recruitment office, they put me into a special program. Officially the title on my pay stub says Information Analyst. I’m told there’s even a cubicle somewhere in an office building with my name on it. The more correct name for what I do is operative. I go to whatever country good old Uncle Sam wants me to go. I find out whatever he wants me to find. Which means it doesn’t take me very long to find Scott Castle’s love nest.

  I’m waiting outside when the dawn breaks across the steeples and gates that make up NOLA’s horizon. A century of superstition and voodoo hasn’t kept the city safe. There’ve been outbreaks and fires and floods. It’s beautiful even in its wounded state.

  Much like the woman who emerges from the front door.

  My phone vibrates. “North.”

  Liam’s on the other end of the line. “Found her?”

  “She won’t be happy to see me.”

  “Don’t fuck it up.” My brother’s become way too fucking confident after making things work with the woman he loves. As if he didn’t fuck things up with her a million times. He doesn’t deserve Samantha any more than I deserve Bethany, but that’s the thing about women—they want what’s not good for them. It’s the only reason the human race has perpetuated this long.

  The door opens, and two women step out. Marlena has a mass of strawberry-blonde curls that catch on the wind. In contrast Bethany has smoothed her dark hair back into a bun. She always looks so put together. I wonder if she knows it makes me want to mess her up.

  Bethany spots me first. I notice the break in her stride even though she keeps walking. I sling myself into step beside them, startling a cry from Marlena. Her eyes widen as she takes me in. What must I look like? I’ve had no sleep, but I could go for another eight hours before needing a break. That comes from the military. I’m wearing a black T-shirt and tactical pants. I don’t go for the suits that Liam and the other close security people have to wear, not if I can help it.