Kneel Down

by Chelle Bliss

  Johnny moved closer, and I caught another whiff of a scent, this one reminding me of rich, expensive cologne.

  I moved my nails across the back of my phone, letting the noise of the tapping distract me. “Between the prep work before the shoot, the shoot itself, and the little after party, I didn’t have time to call Kit or Cara and tell them anything.”

  Yet again, my phone sounded, and this time, Johnny pulled my phone from my hands, sliding his thumb across the screen before I could protest.

  “Listen, Mrs. Kaino…” His demeanor changed in an instant. The wide, warm smile vanished from Johnny’s face. “Si,” he said, standing from the desk. He moved around the room, his shoulders and back going straight, and the muscles in his neck flexed as Johnny turned. He slipped one hand into his pocket as he listened to whoever it was spoke to him on my phone. “No. That’s not going to happen. No.”

  He faced the window, ignoring me when I left the desk, following behind him. I wanted to interrupt. To demand that he give me back my phone, but Johnny had shifted from calm and collected to outright pissed off in the few seconds since he’d answered that call. He’d always wanted on my good side. I’d never seen anything else from him. But the person on the other end of the call wasn’t anyone Johnny Carelli had any interest in a good side connections with.

  He tightened his features. I watched his profile, not liking how he flared his nostrils or how he sucked on the inside of his cheek. The longer the person spoke, the more irritated Johnny became.

  “Johnny…what on earth…”

  He flashed me a glare. In an instant, the hard edges that made his expression seem so dangerous, so scary, softened.

  “That all you have to say? Bene.”

  Then Johnny hung up the phone. He held it for half a second, pressing his lips together, attention on the cityscape outside the window before he handed my cell back to me.

  “I’m sorry, bella,” he told me, smoothing his fingers across my forehead to brush back my bangs. “But I think I pissed off your asshole redneck.”

  7

  Dale

  Gin was different now.

  Maybe it was the city.

  It had done something to her.

  Only a week in New York and she’d started to wear her surroundings like a second skin. Maybe it was just how she stood. There were heels now, not wellies or Chucks like the ones she’d sported on the set back in Seattle.

  I watched her like a damn stalker from a bus stop across four lanes of traffic on one of the busiest streets in Manhattan, wondering how in the hell I’d managed to go years, damn years, not noticing Gin’s legs.

  I was a blind asshole.

  Had to be the heels.

  Or the city.

  Back in Washington, she was all business, calling the T-shirts and a worn pair of Levi’s her behind-the-scenes-shit. Clothes that made her presentable enough to work hard but not look like a truck driver.

  There was still a fit shape to her. No number of baggy tees, messy ponytails, and rubber boots could hide that. But I’d somehow missed some very important details, like those legs.

  Watching her as she talked with some chick, I noticed Gin was different in more ways than I’d picked up on at the wedding. Now there was something about her that made me feel…out of place. She looked like a lady. I was damn sure no gentleman. How she’d changed, what she’d become, all that might have been there all along, but I’d missed it.

  I’d missed a lot of things.

  I was here to stop missing everything.

  “This is not a good idea,” Kane had warned yesterday before I caught my flight. He’d followed me around the Tacoma set like a kid trying to get his old man not to take off on yet another bender. He was my boss, my friend, but the bastard wasn’t my keeper. “Seriously, dude…”

  “Shouldn’t you be on your honeymoon?”

  “Shouldn’t you be leaving well enough alone?”

  Asshole had to say shit like that. I understood. Kit had his ear, and Gin had Kit’s. After that conversation with Carelli, my gut screamed at me to carry my ass to New York.

  “Remind Bowtie these are a loan. I’m coming back for them.” I stuffed my drills and bits into Asher’s truck bed and covered them with a tarp. “I’m serious. Do not let that little asshole mess up my shit.”

  “Dale…” Kane watched me across the truck.

  I could feel his stare, the weight of it like a noose around my neck. I looked around the set, to the crew. Kit stood at the edge of the mansion, pretending to listen to one of the assistant producers. She watched Kane and me closer, likely trying to read our lips.

  They were good people.

  They cared about Gin.

  Hell, I knew they cared about me too.

  Head down, staring at the rust spotted around Asher’s truck bed, I shook my head. “He’s in the fucking mob.” I finally looked up at him. “From the shit he said to me, I got the feeling he’s not letting her go easy, and I’m not going to leave her up there with no one having her back.”

  “Man,” he started, clenching his teeth as if he questioned the wisdom of telling me what he thought. The next second, though, Kane exhaled and got out what was in his head. “She’s managed a year on her own. Gin is a baller. She’s a badass. You should know better than anyone she can cover her own ass.” He wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t have time to discuss it. There was a plane to catch and a plan in play. Or at least, part of one—get to New York.

  “It’s your funeral,” Kane told me, not smiling. “Just remember I warned you.”

  Kane didn’t get it. No one would, I guess, unless they’d been where I had. There was civilian loyalty, and there was service loyalty. You didn’t know what it was until you’d seen action. I had. Kane hadn’t, and even though Gin hadn’t been in the service, she’d done time being loyal. She’d had a shitty childhood. She’d spent time in the foster system. She’d had to learn what real loyalty was. When your back was against the wall, there weren’t many you could count on. Gin had proven to me time and again I could count on her.

  Sometimes, she was the only one I could count on.

  The traffic thickened as Gin and her friend went on talking until the woman with the portfolio got into the limo and Gin waved her off. She watched the car drive away, and I moved closer, slipping through the throng of cars.

  Gin pulled out her phone, speaking to the porter at the hotel entrance. The guy hailed a cab as Gin’s attention was on that phone.

  My stomach coiled, realizing her guard was down, willing her with my stare to put the damn cell away as a group of kids came near her.

  Two of them veered away from the small group, shooting glances at Gin, then to each other. They couldn’t have been more than eighteen, thin, wearing thick coats and caps pulled down to their eyebrows. There were pale with pimpled skin, and the lankiest of the two rushed right behind Gin before I’d cleared a row of speeding cabs.

  The kid went for her purse, yanking it from her shoulder. Gin jumped, surprised by the tussle, but quickly recovered. She shook her head once before she took the heel of her shoe and slammed it into the top of the kid’s foot, sending the little punk to his side.

  “Are you freaking crazy, you little bastard?” she yelled, hovering over him, pointing at him, and continuing to jab her heel into the top of his foot.

  The porter and two of the hotel bellhops had to pull Gin off the kid before a cruiser approached. The entire time, she screamed bloody murder at this wailing, lanky kid who babbled and cried over his busted foot.

  “Idiot,” I mumbled, calling out the kid for what he was and myself for thinking Gin would need a rescue. Of course, this was a stupid attempt by a little punk with no clue. New York was big, and Carelli wasn’t exactly a Boy Scout. I wasn’t simple.

  Gin could be in a lot of trouble if she stayed around him for too long, but I hated to admit it. Kane wasn’t totally wrong. She wasn’t helpless, a fact that I should have remembered. God knows I’d seen her han
dle herself one time too many.

  Like the first night I met her.

  The night Kit had planned to interview Gin for her job.

  Kit had laughed louder than I’d ever seen her that night. We stayed in the corner away from the noise in the bar as Kane and I each nursed a beer. Back then, the bastard liked to pretend he wasn’t stupid over Kit. He played bodyguard to protect the network’s investment and any future livelihood the show might have for him, but I knew better. The guy was sprung for Kit even then.

  I’d only made out Kit’s laugh and the back of Gin’s head as they sat and talked for hours on end. I was about to check out and leave Kane to his bodyguarding when Kit’s laughing stopped altogether.

  “What the hell did you say to us?” Kit’s voice went louder than the music blaring from the speakers at the back of the bar.

  Even with the crowd, Kane and I both heard the whip of insult and anger in her voice.

  “Shit,” Kane had said, kicking off the barstool at the same time I did.

  We made it near Kit’s table just as Kit and Gin stood, and some fat cowboy took hold of Kit’s arm.

  “I said, no thank you.” Kit and Gin stood shoulder to shoulder.

  I took half a second to assess the situation—fat cowboy who looked to be pushing fifty and hardly able to stand, and Kit’s potential employee, a curvy woman with a hurricane of dark red hair, looking at the drunk asshole like she was ready to rip him from neck to nuts.

  The asshole was too drunk to notice his request and presence weren’t wanted, and he angled closer to Kit, getting out a sloppy, “Come on, darlin’, one dance…”

  Kane glanced at me and nodded toward the back of the bar. I slipped over the counter as he bypassed the stage. But just as we made it to the table, Kit had maneuvered out of the fat asshole’s grip and Gin had swiped his legs out from under him.

  Problem was, the cowboy had two drunk friends who looked eager for a fight, and when he went down and they spotted the two small women responsible, they charged, not expecting either Kit or Gin to do much damage.

  Idiots, the pair of them.

  Gin was on a second cowboy’s back, her legs around his waist, holding her arm around his neck as he swung back and forth, struggling to shake her loose.

  I was impressed.

  She looked like a force of nature. It didn’t occur to me that she needed me for a single thing. So I just stood there, grinning like a fool because she was something else to look at.

  Hell, she had such a lock on the guy’s neck, that asshole’s face was turning purple.

  “Hand that over,” she said, surprising me with the demand.

  Next to me on a stand-up speaker sat a warm bottle of Teeling Irish Whiskey, the label peeled at the corner, and Gin kept nodding to it. For some reason, the sight of this woman looking half crazed with violence put me in a good mood, kind of made me miss my SEAL brothers.

  I grinned at her, forgetting for a second that Trudy was going to bitch at me if I came home with a busted lip for getting in the middle of someone else’s tussle. But, hell, it looked like fun.

  “Well?” she grunted, squeezing the asshole’s neck tighter when I didn’t answer.

  “Half full,” I said, expecting her to understand. “Seems a shame to waste.”

  Behind us, Kane knocked out the drunk asshole who’d insisted Kit dance with him and managed, somehow, to hold her and the asshole’s friend back. Gin dropped the second guy to the floor, kneeing him for good measure, then jerked the Teeling from the speaker, twisted the cap open, threw back the bottle, and downed the whiskey.

  “Now it’s not,” she said, flipping it upside down. The guy rolled over and came back for her, and then Gin knocked him good across the back of the head.

  I hadn’t seen anyone move that quickly, or down liquor like that, since I left the SEALs. Right then, I knew if Kit didn’t hire Gin, I’d find a way to get her on our crew. This woman was a badass. You could never have too many of those in your life.

  I glanced at the three men on the floor, then at Kit and Kane before offering Gin my hand. “Dale Hunter,” I said, nodding as she shook it. “You taking the job?”

  “Yeah,” Gin answered, shrugging like she didn’t see any reason not to. “Might as well.”

  “Good. Let me buy you a drink.”

  * * *

  Gin disappeared inside the hotel with the porter and two bellhops following behind her. She looked like a queen, angry and ready to burn the fucking city to the ground because some punk kid tried to swipe her purse.

  I was a moron.

  Of course, she could handle herself.

  Of course, she could manage a kid and a city. Probably an entire army of dangerous men.

  Of course, she’d get tired of me running from the shit that’d weighed me down my whole life.

  Gin was dangerous herself. She was beautiful, smart, and talented.

  Of course, someone like Carelli would see that.

  Who wouldn’t?

  Somewhere inside the bullshit I’d locked away in my head, there was a voice that reminded me what I wanted and how to get it. I knew what I wanted. I just had to convince Gin that I meant it. I had to convince her to give me a chance to prove to her that it wasn’t too late.

  My cell vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out, eyes rolling when I spotted Kiel’s name on the screen. I only answered because he was my in on Carelli. Those people might be his in-laws, but Kiel owed me. I had a bullet hole in my gut because of that asshole. No way was he ever gonna repay that shit.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sunshine! Good to see New York has improved your attitude.” The low grunt I made seemed answer enough for Kiel, and the man continued. “Fine, I won’t mess with you. My beautiful wife is about to pop, and my son could come at any second, so I’m in a rush and feeling fucking generous.” Another grunt and this time, Kiel went silent.

  “Three-hour surgery, asshole.”

  He sighed, clearing his throat before he continued. “Fine, okay. So, my big brother says you have no plan.”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “You let that beautiful woman fall right into my brother-in-law’s rich, capable hands, Hunter. You being an idiot is a given, but I digress.” In the background, I caught Cara’s soft, singsong voice, and Kiel’s attitude instantly changed. “Yes, baby. I know.” He cleared his throat, getting rid of any sweetness he reserved for his wife before he spoke to me again. “Okay, man, I got an idea. It’s a good one.”

  For a second, I remembered Kiel’s grumpy complaining at the party and how irritated he’d been at his brother-in-law. Turned out Kiel needed to learn not to go into a poker game buzzed. He’d complained about the money Carelli had won off of him for the rest of the weekend. The bastard had his pride, and I suspected whatever had him calling was likely tied up in the money Johnny Carelli took from him in that game.

  “This have anything to do with that ten grand you lost?”

  “You know it does.” He didn’t sound remotely embarrassed, and Kiel didn’t miss a beat when he hurried to ask, “You got cash on you?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Grab an Uber. I’ll text you an address. There’s someone you should meet.”

  The text alert sounded on my phone, and I looked at it. The hair on my arms stood up. That was never good. I caught the same vibe on assignment when shit was about to get squirrelly. Sometimes, it meant that we’d come across the mark we’d been tagged with finding. Sometimes, it meant we’d been made, and some asshole was waiting to detonate a bomb and blow us to pieces out into the desert.

  But this? Hell, it could go either way.

  “So,” I asked Kiel, jaw clenching as I readied for what I was sure would be a smartass response. “Is this gonna earn me a pair of cement boots?”

  He laughed, and the sound did not make me feel any better. “No, but my brother-in-law probably won’t be extending any more poker invites to me.”

  8

  Gi
n

  Back in East Tennessee, we got swarms. Heat came in swarms, same as the dust that coated the mountains and the pollen that dried around the rivers. Everything stuck, and even breathing got tricky for some.

  Old Lady Mixen, the last foster mother I had, used to say that was why God made Tennessee so pretty—so we’d forget the way allergy season made even shallow breaths a burden.

  We had other swarms too, like the fireflies that came into the mountains in mid-June. Those, I welcomed because they were beautiful. Great heaps of light moving together like choreographed swirls, brightening the dark sky, whisking around this way and that. There was nothing in my world more beautiful than those creatures dancing.

  Some swarms were beautiful, even welcome.

  But the swarm of heat I felt standing on the job site Monday morning was overbearing. I’d only felt it before when Dale stared too long. When he stared and said nothing. When he stared, said nothing, and dangled that pointless hope in front of me.

  Like he did then, walking straight for me.

  “Son of a bitch,” I whispered behind my cup as I widened my eyes, blinking to test if I was imagining the man coming straight for me.

  Johnny’s gaze left my face, shifted across the roof. He stood straight up, handing over his coffee to Angelo in front of me and trying to keep Dale from getting a good look at me.

  Something, I hated to admit, I didn’t appreciate.

  Dale wore what I loved seeing him in—a pair of well-worn Levi’s, combat boots, a tight gray Navy shirt, with a thin, dark blue flannel unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. He looked tired, rugged, and I had to fight back the low rush of desire that swirled in the pit of my stomach when I spotted him coming closer. He wore no hat but had on a pair of black shades that concealed half of his face. The other half was covered in a scruffy beard that looked heavier than how he’d worn it at Kit and Kane’s wedding.

  “You lost, Hunter?” Johnny held up a hand when Dale tilted his head.