Destructive (Combative Trilogy Book 3)

by Jay McLean

  My head snaps up, my eyes meeting his instantly. “She knows about me?”

  “Of course she does,” he says through a scoff. “Why wouldn’t she? She is my wife.”

  I stare at him, confusion swirling in my mind. “Jesus,” I mutter. “What a tangled fucking web this is.”

  He grins. “I like it when you curse. It’s sexy.”

  “Shut up.”

  A pop of the fire makes me flinch, and I look over his shoulder. With a sigh, I ask, “Am I an accomplice now? Is that how this works?”

  “I don’t know,” he says through a chuckle. Then his features fall, his voice hardening. “Why don’t you ask Brent?”

  I raise my chin. “Maybe I will.”

  “Maybe you will, huh?” he mocks, his hands going to my hips. I choke on a gasp, hold my breath as he leans into me, the warmth of his words coating my neck. “Go ahead.”

  A rush of air leaves me, and I pull it back in, attempt to regain my composure.

  “Does he know about us?” he murmurs.

  “About how you locked me in your basement until I finally gave in to your desires?” I choke out.

  His grip on my hip tightens. “Funny, that’s not how I remember it.”

  I swallow. Hard. And close my eyes when he presses into me, his lips brushing my neck. “Is that how you remember it, Bailey? Because I don’t remember you ever asking me to stop,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking the bare space between my top and my jeans.

  I lick the dryness off my lips.

  “Do you remember our first kiss? When you sat on the bathroom counter with your legs wrapped around me and your hands in my hair. You were grinding on me, needing more of me. You didn’t want me to leave then… Do you want me to leave now?”

  My chest heaves as a whimper falls from my lips.

  “Did you ask me to stop the first time I touched you here?” he whispers, raising his hand. The backs of his fingers stroke the tip of my breast, and I choke on a gasp. “Or what about when I touched you here?” He drops his hand, his palm quick to find the heat building between my legs.

  Oh, God.

  This is so fucked up.

  So, so, so fucking wrong.

  He kisses my neck, his mouth open, licking me there, and I can’t inhale enough air to stop my head from spinning.

  “And I definitely don’t remember you telling me stop when I tasted you here.”

  Fuck. “Nate,” I pant, reaching up to grasp his shoulders.

  He keeps going: “And I’m pretty sure it was your idea to wrap that perfect fucking mouth of yours around my cock.” His mouth moves to mine, his lips skimming as he unbuttons my fly, lowers the zipper.

  “Stop.” It’s barely a whisper, but he stops immediately. Even going as far as zipping me back up.

  My breaths are ragged as I try to calm my racing pulse. He almost had me, and it was so easy and that—that’s fucking terrifying.

  When he pulls back, a crooked smile graces his lips, and I almost give in to him again. There aren’t many girls out there who can possibly be immune to Nathaniel’s charm; I just… I can’t be one of them. I can’t let him control me. Not now. Not ever again.

  And if he wants to play these games, I’ll find a way to beat him. I reach up, flatten my hands on his stomach, and keep my eyes on his. Then I run my hands up his torso, over his chest, biting back a smile when I hear his inhale falter. I need to have the power—the control. I trace the straps of his holster until the tips of my finger brush against his gun. “How many of these do you have?” I manage to say.

  He can’t take his eyes off me. “On me right now?”

  I nod.

  Grinning, he tilts his head to the side. “I don’t know,” he says, closing what little space there is between us. Chest to chest, they rise and fall together. His. Mine. One source of air. One heartbeat. He asks, “Why don’t you search me?”

  It’s a dare. I know it. He knows it. And he expects me to back down. To give in. To ignore the pull, the fireworks that only appear when we’re together like this… this close… this free. Ignoring the goosebumps coating my flesh, I move my hands to his back, run them lower and lower until I feel another gun tucked into his waistband. He blinks once as his tongue darts out, wets his bottom lip. We’re so close, our collective breaths linger. Merge into one. Our eyes are locked, watching the other’s, searching. Until he closes his—a slow movement—and I instantly miss the way he looks at me. The way he makes me feel. “Why did you come with me tonight?”

  I run my finger along the grip of the gun. “What?” I breathe out.

  He pulls back an inch, his eyes opening again. And just like that, the spark in his eyes that lights the fires inside me extinguishes. “Your contract with the feds—it’s not just about Parker, is it?” Those lifeless eyes search mine, and I fight the urge to look away, to hide my truths. “It’s me, too, isn’t it?” I blink back the heat behind my eyes. “Or is you getting in my head like this your own personal vendetta?”

  He knows.

  Without me having to say a word…

  He knows.

  My chest aches with the strength of my withheld sob, and I break, fall apart, releasing the pain in the form of a single tear.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers, holding me to him completely.

  “It wasn’t supposed to hurt like this,” I cry, wiping my eyes against his shirt. His chest rises and falls against mine, neither of us saying a word, while pops of the fire go off behind him. “I get it, Bailey.”

  I push him away. “No, you don’t!”

  “I do,” he assures, reaching for me again. “You have to do what’s right for you.”

  I shove his hands away. “I want to hate you so much.”

  “You have every right to—”

  “But you’re so deep in my fucking head, and I can’t shake it. I can’t shake you.” I flick out my hands, release my frustrations, all while he watches. “And it shouldn’t be like this, because you—”

  “I know what I did!” he cuts in. “And I live with the regret, the guilt.”

  My throat closes when he pulls out the gun from his waistband. Roughly, he takes my hand in his, places it there, my finger on the trigger. My heart races as he holds it between us, the barrel right to his head. “Nate, no!”

  His hand engulfs mine, covering it completely. Eyes red, on mine, he says through gritted teeth, “Do you know how many times I’ve done this to myself, Bailey? And that was even before I knew what you went through after.”

  I try to pull the gun back, but he holds it there, his strength overpowering mine. My hand shakes, making the gun do the same.

  “I have to live every single day knowing that I couldn’t save my mom…” He takes a breath. “Couldn’t save you!”

  “Nate, please,” I beg, trying to release the trigger and get out of his hold.

  “It fuckin’ hurts.” His hand covers his heart. “In here. And it won’t stop hurting, Bailey. No matter what I fuckin’ do.” He sniffs once, the sound of heartache and devastation. “So pull the fuckin’ trigger. You’ll be doing me a favor!”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “Stop it!” I scream. “Please stop!”

  He releases my hand, and the gun falls to the ground.

  I can’t think.

  Can’t breathe.

  I look up to see Nate grasping at his hair, the heels of his palms covering his eyes. His chest heaves, and when I reach for him, he jerks out of my touch. “Don’t.”

  “Nate…”

  We stand in silence for a few seconds, our heavy breaths the soundtrack to the destruction we’re causing. “Bailey, I uhh…” His swallow is audible, and the air around us turns thicker, heavier. Panting, he says, “I need you to listen to me for a moment.”

  I face him, panic rising, making my hands quake. “Okay…”

  Gripping the back of his neck, he keeps his gaze lowered. “If anything happens to me…”

  “Nate—” />
  “No, just listen. If anything happens, or when I know for sure that all of this is coming to an end—good or bad—I need you to do something for me.”

  I try to settle my breathing while I line up his words, so they somehow make sense. Mouth dry, I whisper, “Anything.”

  “I’ll give you all the information… I’ll put it in your mailbox when it’s time. Along with this…” he says, retrieving something from his pocket. He pulls out a ring, the diamond so big it reflects off the moonlight. “So you know it’s from me.”

  “Nate, I can’t…” I’m crying now, tears flowing too fast and too free that I couldn’t hide or stop them if I tried.

  “It was my mom’s engagement ring…”

  That panic turns to alarm. “We can leave,” I rush out, trying to reach for him.

  Again, he jerks away from me, continues to speak as if he can’t hear me. “I want you to have it, Bailey.” His glassy eyes finally meet mine. “Because I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you. And I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to say it again, or to prove it. So…”

  “Nate…”

  He shoves the ring back in his pocket and sniffs once. “Just check your mailbox often, okay?”

  I wrap my arms around him now, and I won’t let him pull away this time, won’t let him go… I won’t let him leave me, or leave this world. “Let’s just go away together,” I breathe out.

  “You know we can’t do that, Bailey,” he says, his mouth pressed to my forehead.

  “Yes, we can,” I push, sinking my face into his palm when he holds me there. “We can go anywhere.”

  He swipes his thumb across my cheek, taking my liquid heartache with it.

  I tilt my head back to look at him. “Anywhere in the world, Nate. Where do you want to go?”

  Sad, solemn eyes search mine. “You.”

  My brow dips. “But... I’m not a place.”

  His mouth lowers, settles on mine. He kisses me once. Just once. “You are to me.”

  28

  BAILEY

  I woke up with a headache that won’t seem to quit, and after what happened last night, it’s no wonder. Nate brought me home, the drive spent in complete silence. There were so many things I wanted to say, to ask, but I knew he wouldn’t respond and so I kept quiet. When he pulled up outside my apartment, I wanted to ask him to come up with me for no other reason than to make sure he would make it through the night alive. I woke up to a text from Sara asking when our next driving lesson would be. It was enough to appease my worries, but not enough to stop the anxious energy flowing through my veins. I needed to quit it, to get out of that headspace, especially since I was about three footsteps away from knocking on Brent’s office door.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  I knock, and without waiting for a response, I open the door and poke my head inside. Brent’s sitting behind his desk, a cell phone to his ear. He waves for me to enter, then puts a finger to his mouth to keep me quiet. I nod in understanding and step inside, but keep my distance, giving him the privacy he might need. “I understand,” he says. “No, no. I’ll tell her.” My ears prick, and I face him, my eyes wide.

  “What’s up?” I mouth, and he holds up a finger. Wait. I cross my arms, stand on the other side of his desk.

  “Okay,” he says into the phone. “I’ll speak to you later.” When he hangs up, he drops his head in his hands, the heel of his palms rubbing at his closed eyes.

  “Brent, what’s going on?”

  It takes him a moment to respond. “They found a body in the river.”

  Nate’s name comes out as a gasp, but Brent’s quick to shut it down. Relief washes through me while apprehension fills his eyes. “It’s not DeLuca,” he tells me. He comes to a stand and busies himself with the stacks of papers on his desk. “The man’s unidentified as of now, but he was handcuffed, and those cuffs were chain-linked to a cement block keeping him underwater.”

  My brow dips. “Okay…”

  “The man has a tattoo on his neck—” My pulse thrums along my flesh. “A bird. And a cross on his left hand.” Mindlessly, I brush my thumb along the spot that Nate had touched. Brent’s eyes follow my movement. “Right there.”

  “Huh” is all I can say.

  Brent adjusts his watch. “Sounds like your guy, right?”

  I shrug, my vision as blurry as the thoughts rushing through my mind. “I guess.”

  “You know what the strangest part is?” he asks, guiding me with his hand on the small of my back toward the door. “The guy’s entire body was covered in deep cuts.”

  “Like… stab wounds?”

  “No.” He opens the door for me to exit first. “They were all perfect circles…”

  I stop breathing.

  “It’s weird, right?” he murmurs, closing the door behind us.

  “Weird…” I agree.

  Brent lets out a disbelieving snort. “Imagine if they did that to him before he died…”

  “Yeah,” I look up at him. “I bet it must’ve hurt.”

  His eyebrows rise, right before he opens the door to the next office.

  The last time I was in this room, Brent was standing beside me, Agent Perceval was behind his desk, and opposite him was Nathaniel DeLuca.

  Now, the only one here is me and a tiny blond with piercing blue eyes that seem to study my every move.

  I wonder if this is what Ashton looks like.

  “It’s good to see you again, Bailey,” Dr. Aroma says, settling in behind the desk where Perceval usually sits. She’s a therapist, contracted by the Philadelphia Police Department with a specialty in criminal psychology. I know this because Brent told me all about her when he was trying to convince me to see her. When I declined, Perceval put it in the contract. Everything is in the contract.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” I lie.

  “So… last time we were here, you were getting ready to go undercover.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “It’s um… it’s going.”

  “You seem different today,” she says, her head tilted, assessing me.

  I feel different. Everything changed in the time I spent with Nate last night, and I don’t know what to make of it… what to do about it. “Different how?”

  Those eyes of hers pin to mine, softening with every passing second. “A little… lost?”

  I break the stare, my mind reeling. My fingers tremble. I’m jittery. On edge. “I met someone from my past,” I murmur. “Someone who hurt me.”

  “Hurt you how?”

  “Not physically,” I’m quick to say. “And not on purpose…”

  “Go on...”

  “I guess their choices, their actions—they led to my demise.”

  “Demise?”

  Chewing my lip, I nod once.

  “You don’t think you’re stronger because of what happened to you?” Dr. Aroma asks. Her voice is so gentle, so soft, as if she’ll break me into pieces if she speaks one wrong word.

  “No, I think I’m harder because of what happened... sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “Yeah...”

  “Like when?”

  “Like when I fake it when I’m with Brent... because it’s almost as if he expects it from me, or maybe it’s because he likes that I’m that way and I don’t want to disappoint him. Not after everything he’s done for me.”

  “He cares about you a lot. That’s why he brought you here.”

  “I know,” I tell her. “I used to think that he knew me better than anyone. That he was the closest thing I had to a friend, to family…” But everything’s changed, and nothing’s the same, and I don’t know what the fuck to do.

  Dr. Aroma’s nodding, as if all of this makes sense to her. I wish it made sense to me. “But then this person from your past—the one who hurt you—he’s making you question that?”

  My eyes meet hers. “How do you know it’s
a he?”

  She smiles, mischievous, as if she’s privy to information that’s not written in any file or any contract. “Just a hunch.” She makes a few notes on a legal pad, then looks up at me. “So how does this guy make you feel, Bailey?”

  How does Nate make me feel? Confused, excited, sad, angry, discarded… loved. “I think that’s the point,” I mutter. Then I let it all out, everything I’m thinking. “He makes me feel. And for months, everything has been so set in stone for me. I’ve been told what to say and how to act and what to wear, but I’ve never been told what to feel. And that scares me.”

  Dr. Aroma drops the pen she’d been gripping and leans in closer, her forearms folded on the desk. “No one should tell you how to feel, Bailey. Emotions are yours and yours alone.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Let’s do a little exercise. I want you to tell me what you want, right now, but the only rule is you must start the sentence with ‘I feel.’”

  I ponder this a moment, then release the weight of a truth I’d been grasping on to. “I feel like I need to find a way to forgive him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I feel like he won’t be around long enough to forgive himself.”

  29

  NATE

  “You know, it’s kind of sweet…” Jerry says, placing two coffees on the counter between us. “You coming in here every morning, getting a coffee for your wife.”

  I shrug. “You know what they say, happy wife…”

  “Happy life,” he finishes for me.

  Jerry has owned the deli across from my apartment since I can remember. He’s also one of the many businesses we pay to keep their mouths closed and their cheeks turned.

  After pocketing his payment, he leans in closer, his forearms on the counter. Lowering his voice, even though we’re the only two people here, he asks, “You hear about that guy they pulled out of the river?”

  I had heard about it.

  Though I wasn’t prepared for anyone to find the body this quick. “Seems to be happening more and more these days,” I mumble, wrapping my hands around the warm cup to hide their trembling. They’ve been doing it more than usual lately, and I should probably do something about it.