by Jay McLean
Sara: Let me in.
There’s no reason why Brent should be here this late. Not unless it’s an emergency. Urgency pulses through my veins, and I rush to the window and part the curtains. My heart stills when I see him. He’s leaning against the railing, his gaze down, face lit up by the phone in his hand, and when he looks up, those dark, dark eyes pin me to my spot, making it impossible to breathe.
The corners of his lips lift when he takes me in, and without thinking, I run a hand through my hair. Pathetic really, because I shouldn’t care what I look like, especially to Nathaniel DeLuca.
“You going to open up?”
I have to remind myself that right now, he’s not the enemy. We’re fighting the same fight… and for some reason, he has Brent’s phone or at least access to it. I slide the window up as far as it will go, then take a step back.
“Expecting someone else?” When I don’t respond, he pulls back an inch, looks me up and down this time. “You were sleeping.”
“No, I wasn’t,” I lie, crossing my arms over my chest. “What are you doing here?”
“You were totally sleeping.” There’s a playfulness in his tone that ignites a warmth of familiarity deep in my chest. “You’ve got those eyes.”
I blink. “What eyes?” And what the hell is he doing here?
“Those tired eyes,” he tells me, pushing off the railing. He leans in closer, his gaze fixed on mine. “You used to get them when I’d come home late. You’d pretend you weren’t tired so we could spend some time together. But then you’d pass out the moment you were in my arms, and I’d stay awake for hours just watching you sleep.”
I can’t look at him anymore. Can’t face the man I once loved and now loathe. “You can’t do this.” I wish my words came out stronger than they do, but my voice wobbled. My strength wavered.
“Do what, Bai?”
“This,” I say, blindly motioning toward him. “You can’t come here and pretend as if nothing happened between us. Like we’re just two normal people who loved each other once upon a time.”
He’s quiet a beat, and when I look up at him, he’s already watching me, his brow knitted. He doesn’t even try to hide the pain in his eyes.
I hate this.
With a heavy sigh, I ask, “What are you doing here, Nate?”
“Come for a ride with me.”
A disbelieving snort bursts from my lips. “You’re insane.” I reach up to close the window, but his hand circles my wrist, not harsh, but just enough to get my attention. To set off goosebumps across my flesh. I choke on a shuddering breath and meet his eyes again.
“Maybe,” he says, the corners of his mouth ticking up. He shifts his hand until we’re palm to palm. His fingers close around mine, capturing my touch. Large and strong against small and weak. “Feel like being a little insane with me?”
And that weakness pulls me into him, leads me to say, my words barely a whisper, “Yes.”
Sitting behind the wheel of a car I don’t recognize, Nate asks, “What are you thinking, Bai?”
What am I thinking? I’m thinking that the lights of the nightlife that keep passing us by are too bright for my eyes. That the low hum of whatever song is playing is making me antsy. And I can’t stop looking out the window, searching for strangers and wondering if they have a home to go to or if they’re lost, like I used to be, trying to find a safe place to sleep for the night.
I hate this.
I ask, facing him, “Where are we going?”
Loosening his grip on the steering wheel, he glances at me quickly. “Trust me.”
I scoff.
“What?” he asks, slowing down at a red light. When we’re stopped, he turns his entire body toward me, his back against the door. “You don’t trust me?”
I shake my head. “Not even a little bit.” Lie.
He blows out a breath, his cheeks puffing with the force. “I thought about you every day, Bailey.”
“Funny.” I disconnect from his penetrating gaze. “I waited for you every day, and yet…”
The car starts moving again, and I face my window, close off my airways so the sob doesn’t escape. I keep my eyes closed, keep my liquid agony hidden.
I hate this.
“I’m here now,” he murmurs. But he’s too late, and it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
I don’t know how long we drive for before the car stops again. “We’re here,” he says.
Here is the parking lot of an old warehouse with no other cars in sight. The only lights are from the street lamps. We’re secluded. No one would hear me scream, not that I would. “Feel like holding a gun to my head again?”
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, and I turn to him. He’s shaking his head, slowly, slowly, his eyes searching mine. “That was before.”
“Before what?” I almost scoff. “Before you kidnapped me and held me captive for a year and a half?” Those words had never left my mouth before, had never once infiltrated my mind. Not until Brent used them to summarize my time with Nate once I’d explained everything to him.
Nate’s no longer looking at me. No longer searching my eyes for something that isn’t there. “I thought I’d give you a driving lesson.”
“What?” The loudness of my voice makes him flinch.
He responds, his tone even, “The one thing I wanted to give you when we were… whatever… is some form of normalcy. I couldn’t give it to you then, no matter how hard I tried. But I can do it now.”
I have nothing to say, so I stay quiet.
“You owe me nothing—”
“I know.”
“—but it would mean a lot if you could give me this one thing before...”
“Before what?”
I follow his gaze to his lap, where his hands sit, the skin around his knuckles flexing when he fists them. They’re bruised, almost identical, as if they’d been in a fight with each other. As if he’d been in a fight with himself. “Before I lose you one last time.”
22
NATE
“I’m driving!” she all but squeals, bouncing in her seat.
“I mean, you’re going around in circles at five miles an hour—” She throws a glare my way, and I can’t help but grin. “Look at you! You’re totally driving.”
I thought the hard part of all of this would be convincing her to leave her apartment and come with me. It turns out, I was wrong. The hard part was getting her used to which pedal was the brake and which was the accelerator. For the first fifteen minutes, she sat behind the wheel, and the starting and stopping and whiplash were constant. But she’s figured it out now—kind of.
It’s been worth it, though.
Swear, at one point, I actually saw her smile. Maybe even heard her laugh. She tried to hide it with a cough, but it was there.
I think.
She hits the brakes, and I instinctively reach out, place my hand on the dash.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, looking behind us. There’s a car pulling into the lot, but it stops short of coming all the way in. Instead, it reverses out and goes back the way it came.
I saw it coming, knew it was there. “You look scared,” I state, and her eyes meet mine, wide and wary.
“Aren’t you?” She looks down at the gear shift before attempting to put the car in park. She struggles, so I cover her hand with mine and do it for her. As soon as it’s done, she pulls away completely. As far away as possible. With her back to the door, she asks, “What if someone sees you with me?”
“They won’t,” I assure. “And I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Besides, you shouldn’t be worried about me. What if someone recognizes you?”
She shrugs.
“I mean it, Bailey. Aren’t you scared? You were in that house one minute and gone the next. After a fuckin’ raid, don’t you think they’re out there looking for you?”
“Shouldn’t you know if they are?”
And that’s the part that fucks me up the most. “Obviously, I’m onl
y fed what they want me to know.”
Bailey reaches over, turns down the radio before pinning me with her glare. “What does it feel like, to know that your literal partner in crime is now your enemy?”
“I’m not stupid,” I mumble, flexing my hands again.
Her head cocks to the side. “What do you mean?”
“I was sixteen when my dad died.” I take a steady breath, and then another. “The first thing Benny did after his funeral was offer to take me under his wing. He said we’d be partners. Equal share of the business. He’d work behind the scenes, and I’d be the face. The front.” I pause, make sure she’s taking in everything I’m saying. She nods for me to continue, and so I do. “I was a sixteen-year-old orphan with nothing and no one, and he took advantage of that… and he’s been taking advantage of that ever since.” I know who I am to them, what I am. I should’ve seen it coming—the security cameras, using her as collateral— I should’ve seen it all. But it’s too late now.
Besides, regrets are useless.
Revenge, on the other hand…
“I’m not stupid,” I repeat. “I’m just biding my time…”
“Until what?” Bailey’s voice is barely a whisper.
Until I kill him.
I keep that thought to myself, and instead, I tell her something I’ve been meaning to say ever since I saw her in Perceval’s office. “Bailey, I just… I need you to know that I had no idea. About them taking you, or where you’ve been or… the fucking trafficking. I didn’t know…” And I’m sorry, I don’t say, because sorry won’t cut it, and neither will this one night together.
She stares at me, her eyes searching mine, and I hope she finds the truth beneath my heartache. “I know,” she finally says, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I can’t make sense of a lot of things that have happened to me, and I don’t know why you couldn’t just say goodbye instead of having Tiny take me in the middle of the night at fucking gunpoint.” I flinch at her words, the sting so intense it creates a physical ache. “I assume it’s because you’re a coward…” she trails off, waiting for my response, and all I can do is nod because she’s right about all of it. “But I like to think that I know you, or knew you at least. I know that you’d never take part in something so heinous. That’s why I agreed to help with the investigation.”
I take in her words, then ask, “So you had a choice?”
“Of course, I did.”
I nod once. “And after everything I did to you, you still believe there’s some good in me?”
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Even in the way her uncertainty clings to her actions. The way she shrugs. The way her eyes can only meet mine for seconds at a time. The way she chews her lip when she says, “I don’t know what I believe.” It’s wrong to be having these thoughts, to be consumed by them, and yet, I can’t not stare at her. “But after what you did to protect me somewhat after you found me the way you did, I truly doubt that you’d have anything to do with taking women against their will.”
I suck in a breath, hold it there.
“And even if it wasn’t about me,” she says, her voice weakening, “I saw the pain you carried with you every day.”
My eyes drift shut because I know where she’s going with this; I just don’t want to go there with her.
“There are dozens, if not hundreds, of girls who are victims of the kind of things Benny and Franco are doing.”
The car dips, and a moment later, a soft hand lands on my leg, and I wish… I wish I could open my eyes to hers, but I can’t. I need a moment of darkness, of breathlessness. Of fear. ”Bailey, don’t,” I beg.
“And before she died, Nathaniel… your mom was one of them.”
23
BAILEY
Nate has gone stoic.
Cold.
And a part of me hates this for him.
Hates that I did this to him.
“I think I should take you home,” he murmurs, opening the car door.
In the few seconds it takes to swap sides, I come up with a plan to keep him with me a little longer. I’m not ready to part ways. I still have too many questions, and in a way, I think that’s why I agreed to go with him.
I need answers.
I need truths.
“You think you could stop somewhere so I can get something to eat. I skipped—”
I get what I want. “You shouldn’t be skipping meals, Bailey.”
Nate drives us to a fast-food chain and goes through the drive-through. Disappointment fills my chest, assuming that he’s choosing the quickest and easiest way out, but after we get handed the food, he drives to the corner of the lot, away from the cars that are already there. He puts the car in park and starts going through the bag to hand me my food. “It’s probably not good for you,” he murmurs. “But there aren’t a lot of options this time of night.”
I check the clock on the dash. It’s close to two in the morning. I make quick work of unwrapping my burger and shoving it in my mouth, moaning when the flavor hits my tongue. Considering I don’t leave the apartment alone, it means I rely on Brent bringing me pre-packaged meals and groceries every couple of days. I rarely get to treat myself like this.
“Wow,” Nate says through a chuckle. “You’re really enjoying that, huh?”
Nodding, I reply around a mouthful, “I don’t think there are many people in the world who appreciate food as much as I do.”
Nate frowns as he leans back against the door, watching me, leaving his order completely untouched. “How are you doing? I mean, with the diabetes? I know you weren’t eating well the years you were held there, but now? Is everything—”
My nod cuts him off, and this time, I make sure to swallow before I speak. “It’s good. I’m managing it again, taking my insulin and everything.”
Nate smiles at that, and I lower my head to hide my emotions. There were times when I’d think about him, get lost in the memories… I’d always go back to the way he took care of me, the way he kept me safe and protected me, and maybe it wasn’t enough, but it was all he knew. In those moments, I would swear that he loved me. That he worshipped me. When I remembered that version of him, it was hard to hate him.
But it was even harder to forgive him.
And I hold on to that thought when I ask him the one thing I’d been holding on to all night. “Does your wife know you’re here?”
His smile falls instantly, so does his gaze. His throat bobs with his swallow, right before his eyes meet mine again. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get there.”
I shrug, throw a fry in my mouth, and try to act as if this conversation isn’t going to affect me. Or destroy me. “I figured I’d wait until you mentioned it, but you never did, so…”
“So…” He pushes off the door and leans closer to me. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know.”
I will not cry.
“Her name’s Ashton,” he says, and I roll the single word around in my head.
Ashton. Ashton. Ashton.
“How did you meet?” I ask.
He shrugs. “We’ve known each other for years. Kind of grew up together.”
My curiosity gets the better of me. “Do you have a picture of her?”
“No,” he deadpans.
“Not even on your phone?”
He shakes his head.
“What does she look like?”
“Bailey…” he says with a sigh.
I fight my anger, my sorrow. “Does she look like me?”
His lips purse, his eyes shutting tight. I bet he wishes he were anywhere but here. Too fucking bad for him.
“Does she?”
“No.”
“So…” I put a hand to my stomach, feel the food coming up. “So, what does she look like?”
“Why does it matter?” he huffs out.
“I don’t know.” I really don’t. “It matters to me.”
Nate licks his lips, unable to meet my eyes. “She’s kind of th
e opposite of you.”
“What does that mean?”
He groans. “Like, she’s got blond hair and blue eyes, and she’s little.”
“Little?”
“Short, I mean,” he half sighs, half shouts. “This is stupid.”
I ignore his remark. “What’s she like? As a person?”
He runs both hands down his face, clearly frustrated. “She’s… sweet.”
“Sweet?”
He nods.
“She sounds like sunshine,” I mumble.
“Bai.”
“And you said she’s the opposite of me, so that would make me what? A gloomy cloud?”
He flexes his fingers. Again.
“Maybe that’s what I was in your life. A gloomy cloud hovering over you, turning your world gray.”
His eyes drift shut, his jaw clenched. His nostrils flare with every inhale. Every exhale. He stays like this a moment, his chest heaving. Then he opens his eyes, the whites now red with emotion.
I look away.
I will not show my weakness.
He asks, “What about you and Agent Neilson?”
My gaze snaps to his. My heart falters. One beat. Two. “What about him?”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the phone Brent’s been using to contact me, and waves it in the air. “You tell him you miss him, and he replies that he misses you too?”
I cross my arms, lift my chin. “So what?”
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say a word.
“Why do you even have his phone?”
“Why are you telling him you miss him?” he retorts.
“Because I do,” I tell him honestly. I blink back the heat behind my eyes and try to keep my voice even when I tell him, “Because ever since they found me living in that hell hole, he’s been by my side. He was the only one who treated my life as if it was worth a damn while they photographed every inch of that space, every inch of my body. He was the one who came by the hospital every day after he saved me, sitting by my bed, making sure I was okay, that I was alive and breathing.” A single tear falls, and I’m quick to swipe it away. “Even when I was discharged and they put me up in a hotel room for months while I went through hours and hours of interrogations, he was there for every second of it. And he’s still there now.” A punch of air leaves my lungs—long-withheld—just like my built-up animosity for the man sitting beside me. “So yeah, I miss him. Just like I used to miss you. Because he was all I had, and now I’m here, and I have nothing, Nate. I have nothing but a written description of my task and a contract for my freedom.”
