Second Sight: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone

by Patricia D. Eddy

  “Seriously?”

  “Go!”

  The driver’s shoes slap against the pavement as he double-times it back to the car. Something big crashes in the front room. Wrapping my fingers around the knob, I burst through the door. “Evianna?”

  A man’s curse and Evianna’s choked cry answer me. Fuck. I don’t know what her house looks like, but someone’s hurting her. Ahead and to the right, glass shatters, and I make my way down what feels like a short, narrow hallway.

  The tip of my cane finds an archway, but before I can turn, someone rips the metal out of my hand, and I duck, hitting the ground with my knees and tackling a large, tank of a man, twisting at the last minute to send him to the ground. The scent of too many cigarettes burns my nose, and a not-so-solid gut breaks my fall.

  “Dax! Go left!” Evianna wheezes, and I roll off the guy seconds before the cane slams against thick carpet. Scrambling to my feet, I squint, desperate for some hint of where he is. A shadow. A harsh breath.

  The punch catches me in the shoulder, sending me stumbling back, but I pivot on my right foot and send an uppercut into a stubbly jaw. A deep, male “Oof” is followed by another curse, and now I know where this asshole is. My jab-cross combo leaves my fingers sticky with blood, and the guy throws something heavy at me, a book or a box of some sort that glances off my shoulder as I bob and weave.

  “You want to keep the rest of your teeth? Turn around and put your hands up.” I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. The guy tried to attack me with my own cane. If he’s not a fucking idiot, he knows I’m blind.

  Evianna whimpers behind me, and the sound distracts me just long enough for Mr. Stale Cigarette Smoke to ram my gut with his shoulder. I go down as he drives the air from my lungs, and crash into a warm, soft body that smells like freesia.

  Heavy footsteps thud down the hall, and a door slams. Then…nothing but Evianna’s raspy, shuddering breaths as she trembles under me. Sliding off of her, I reach out and find her shoulder, then brush her hair away from her face. “Evianna? Are you injured, darlin’?”

  The endearment slips from some unknown place as her silky locks slip over my fingers.

  “He…he wanted…he was going to…”

  Sliding my hands up her arms, I pull her almost into my lap, close enough to feel her soft curves against my chest. “Evianna. Are. You. Injured?”

  My sharp tone gets her attention, and she sucks in a deep breath. “I…I cut my cheek on something. He…slammed my head against the desk. But…I didn’t…black out.” She coughs, takes a wheezing breath. “He tried to…strangle me. But I’m okay.” Her body relaxes slightly, and fuck. Even with the adrenaline racing through me, I can’t ignore how good she feels.

  Get your head on straight. Assess the situation and get Evianna somewhere safe.

  I tap the Bluetooth that’s somehow still seated in my ear. “VoiceAssist, call Vasquez.”

  “Yeah, boss?” Vasquez replies after only half a ring.

  “You better be fucking close. Get to the back of Evianna’s building. Someone broke in and attacked her. He just left.” Sliding my arm around her back, I worry at the sharp tang of blood in the air. “Can you describe him, darlin’? Did you see which way he turned when he ran out the door?”

  “A couple inches taller than you. Solid. Kind of…fat? Dressed in black. He had…really dark eyes. Like…Johnny Depp really let himself go. Smelled like cigarettes. And…um…he went left. Uh…south.” Her raspy voice tells me she’s barely holding it together, but she still manages to give a damn good description.

  “You get all that?”

  Vasquez lays on his horn. “Got it. A block north of you now.”

  As soon as I disconnect the call, I help her up then take a half-step back. I need the distance to think. She’s a client, for fuck’s sake. But her breath hitches, and she grabs my wrist, then lets go like I just burned her. “I’m…sorry. Shit. I just needed—”

  “Never touch a blind man without an invitation.”

  I’m an idiot.

  “Come here, darlin’. Hold on to me as long as you need. But can you turn on the lights? I had my driver call the police. They should be here soon.”

  “The lights? How—?” She intertwines our fingers, holding on like her life depends on it.

  “I’m not completely blind. Very few people are. I can tell light from dark. See a few muted colors. Where’s the switch?”

  “Alfie, turn on the downstairs lights.”

  Nothing happens.

  “I…don’t understand. Alfie controls everything, and I checked her alerts in the car. She was operating fine. Nothing on the motion sensors.” Evianna hesitates, then bends down, never letting go of my hand. When she rises, she presses my cane into my free hand. “I can…there’s a manual switch by the door.”

  My shoes crunch over a few pieces of broken glass as she leads me back down the hall, but seconds later, light floods the small space, with dark shadows I think are other rooms up ahead.

  “What now?” she asks.

  “We get you into a chair and you tell me how bad that cut is.” I want to hold her, to have her pressed against me again, but she’s shaking and breathing too quickly for my liking, and I won’t take advantage of her. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

  “Kitchen.”

  The one-word answer worries me, but Evianna hooks her arm through mine, guides me deeper into the house, and flicks on another light just before we step into a larger, open space. “You can sit,” she says, her voice flat as she curls my fingers around the back of a chair. “I’ll get…”

  Years of training and service in the worst conditions in the world taught me more than I ever wanted to know about human behavior. Her tone, her cool skin, her mechanical movements…they all point to an impending adrenaline crash. “No. You’re sitting down. Right now.” Digging a clean handkerchief out of my pocket, I brace my cane on the table and take a chair across from her. “Show me where the cut is.”

  Her hand shakes as she guides me to her cheek. There can’t be too much blood, as I don’t feel any dampness against my fingers.

  “S-sorry,” she whispers as she starts shivering. “Don’t know what’s wrong.”

  “You’re losing adrenaline. Fast. This is normal. Do you have something sweet? Coke, orange juice, lemonade? It’ll help.”

  “There’s juice. In the fridge.” She starts to get up, but her knees must give out, because her ass hits the chair, and she grunts softly. “Dammit.”

  “Keep pressure on this and tell me where to go.” When she hesitates, I sigh, and roll my eyes. “I’m blind. Not helpless. Unless your fridge is pear-shaped with a combination lock, or you keep your glasses stacked like a Jenga tower, I can make my way around a kitchen.”

  “Fridge is directly behind you,” she mumbles, and in four steps, I find the handle.

  “And the juice?” If I can keep her talking long enough to get some sugar into her system, she’ll be fine. If not, I’m going to have some serious explaining to do to the police.

  “Bottom shelf of the door. The carton.”

  “Boss?” Five knocks—Vasquez’s pattern—follow the tense word, and heavy footsteps thud down the hall. “Your driver said the police are almost here. No sign of the perp.”

  I shake my head as Evianna sucks in a sharp breath. Vasquez needs to learn to be a little more sensitive. “Find a glass,” I snap as I return to her side with the carton. But as soon as I sit down, she takes the carton from me.

  “Don’t need one.”

  My jaw drops open as she takes a couple of large gulps loud enough for me to hear. Shit. Something inside of me warms. I wish I could comfort her, but that’s not why she hired Second Sight, and I don’t do comfort.

  The police knock, and I reach into my pocket for my PI license. “Tell them everything, Evianna,” I say quietly. “And then I’ll take you somewhere safe. You’re not staying in this house tonight.”

  Evianna

  My house
isn’t…mine anymore. My…attacker…tossed almost every room. Only the kitchen and downstairs bathroom were untouched. Two police officers spend over an hour taking our statements while a crime scene tech dusts for prints, Vasquez finds my first aid kit and presses a couple butterfly bandages to my cheek, and Dax sits stiffly, his hands on his thighs, his back ramrod straight.

  The tension rolling off of him makes the knot in my stomach twist and turn, and even Vasquez brewing me a cup of tea doesn’t help.

  I need to get into Alfie’s logs. Something’s wrong with her. She should have caught the break-in. But I went through every single event she recorded—the mailman delivering my weekly allotment of junk, my neighbor’s dog getting away from her and running up the steps, and a group of construction workers passing by horsing around. Nothing at the front or back doors to let me know someone broke in, and none of the window sensors went off.

  But I can’t concentrate on anything right now. All I want to do is sleep. Or cry. Anywhere but here.

  “Ms. Archer, we’re done,” Officer Danvers says as she hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s the report number. You’ll be able to access this online in a few hours.” Her partner heads for the door, and she leans closer. “You might want to stay somewhere else tonight.”

  “She’s staying with me,” Dax says. He hasn’t uttered a word in twenty minutes, and my mug rattles on the table as his rough drawl startles me. “Secured building, not linked to her in any way.”

  The officer nods. “Perfect. Good night, Mr. Holloway. Mr. Vasquez. Ms. Archer.”

  As my front door clicks shut, I turn to Dax. “Um, I’m staying where?” I’m too tired to argue, really, but his presumption that I’ll just go with him rallies me a bit.

  “You want to stay here?” His brow arches, highlighting the burns on his lids. “Your call. I can sleep on your couch just as well as I can sleep on mine.”

  “And what if I want to be alone?” I don’t. But his arrogance has sent me from a state of shock and exhaustion into anger.

  With a heavy sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a moment. “If you want to be alone, Vasquez can take you to a hotel. But he’ll be outside your door all night. You asked us to protect you. This is how we do it.”

  He removed his glasses sometime in the past hour or so, and now, I can see the damage to his eyes. It’s like…he’s wearing opaque ice blue contact lenses. His pupils are pale…almost gray. Yet his stare seems to bore right into me, and I wonder how he manages to almost always know right where my eyes are. “Fine. I need a few things first.”

  “Do you need Vasquez to go with you?” Dax asks as I start for the stairs.

  I roll my eyes at him, the gesture only slightly less satisfying knowing he can’t see me. “The police searched the whole house. I think I can manage to pack my own underwear.”

  Vasquez stifles a snort as I pass him, and Dax mutters something under his breath I can’t hear. I can’t decide if he’s being sweet and protective or rude and patronizing. Yet, upstairs, seeing the mess my attacker made searching through my things, knowing he touched my clothes, my pillow, the jewelry box my father made for my mother…it’s too much.

  Sinking onto the floor, I cradle the antique wood box to my chest. The lid hangs from broken hinges, a tangled mess of earrings and necklaces peeking out from under the dresser.

  I don’t even realize I’m crying until Dax kneels next to me. “Evianna? Darlin’? You need to get out of here. Come back downstairs. Tell Vasquez what you need, and he’ll find it.” His warm fingers curl around my arm, brushing the edges of the box. “What’s this?”

  “All I had left.” The words escape on a whisper, as if saying them aloud will somehow make them real. Make my last memories of my father fade into nothingness. Dax eases the box from my grip and runs his fingers over the intricate patterns on the lid, finding the broken hinges and the dented corner.

  “Who made this?”

  I can’t tell him. Hell, I barely know the man. As he gingerly sets the box back in my hands, I peek up at his face. Grief deepens fine lines around his lips, furrows his brow. Despite the damage to his eyes, I see the pain there too.

  “We’ll find out who’s after you.” His deep voice, with a subtle hint of the south Boston hasn’t yet dampened, makes me feel safe, and I sniffle loudly as I slide the broken heirloom onto my dresser.

  “I always felt safe here.” A fresh cascade of tears tumbles over my cheeks, and Dax eases himself down and urges me to lean against him. “If he could bypass Alfie…”

  “Evianna, look at—or…never mind. Just listen.” Staring at the floor, he continues. “Nothing we do tonight is going to find this guy any quicker. You’re hurt and exhausted. Pack a bag. Whatever you need for a couple of days. Vasquez is guarding your laptop. In the morning, call in sick, and we’ll figure the rest out then.”

  “I…can’t. We’re so close to launch.” Swiping the back of my hand over my damp cheeks, I sniffle loudly. “I have to—”

  “Stop.” Dax rests his hands on my shoulders. “What’s the worst thing that’ll happen if you don’t go in tomorrow?”

  I don’t have an answer for him. Just more tears. I hate crying. Feeling like my life is out of control. Hate that I don’t feel safe in my own home.

  “Evianna, let’s get up now. Okay? Get your things together so we can get out of here.” Dax supports me with his hand on my arm as I push to my feet, and for a second or two, we’re close enough I feel his breath on my cheek. He smells like rain and something spicy and woodsy. I wish he’d put his arms around me. I felt safe when he held me earlier. But a moment later, he picks his way over the clothes scattered along my bedroom floor and waits at the door.

  Ten minutes later, Dax follows me down the stairs. He didn’t say a word as I packed three days’ worth of clothes, my toothbrush, make-up bag, and my mother’s pearl ring. The only thing I have left that’s not broken.

  The ride to his apartment passes in silence, Dax staring straight ahead while I let my gaze drift over the lights of the city. Why couldn’t I have overlooked Kyle’s infraction? Or…just ordered him to delete the files and let him keep working. Maybe then…I’d still feel safe. Instead, I’m being driven halfway across town to stay with a man who both terrifies and reassures me.

  “We’re here, boss. Had to double park. Door’s at twelve o’clock.” Vasquez gets my bag out of the trunk while Dax weaves between two parked cars and up three steps to a dark blue door. “Ronan’s watching your house tonight, ma’am. I’ll be out here.”

  For a brief second, I wonder if Vasquez really would take me to a hotel and stay outside the door all night long. But then Dax calls my name, and I realize I don’t want to be alone.

  10

  Evianna

  “VoiceAssist, all lights on, sixty percent,” Dax says as he opens his door and gestures for me to enter.

  Spartan. That’s the only way to describe the space. Plain, beige walls, undecorated. A leather sofa underneath the window, two matching chairs opposite with a utilitarian coffee table in between.

  “Bedroom’s off to the left.” Sinking down onto a bench by the door, Dax toes off his shoes and tucks them under the dark wood before placing his briefcase, his now folded cane, and his keys on the adjacent table. “You should get some rest. I just need to get a pillow and blanket for the couch.”

  I follow him into his private space, dropping my duffel bag next to the bed as I run my fingers over the perfectly straightened duvet. I don’t think he lives here as much as he exists here. No personal touches. Everything’s black or gray or dark brown.

  “I can take the couch,” I offer. “This is your home, and I appreciate you…uh…taking me in for the night.”

  “You’re getting the bed.” With a blanket tucked under his arm, he heads for the nightstand, but before I can warn him, he trips on my duffel bag and goes down, one knee slamming into the bed frame with an audible crack. “Fucking hell,” he growls as he st
ruggles to his feet.

  “Oh God. I’m so sorry.” Rushing over to him, I try to help, but he yanks his arm away. Tears burn my eyes—again, and I’m so sick of crying, the sensation carries me even closer to the edge of another breakdown.

  His chest heaves, the white button-down shirt straining across his pecs. “Rules,” he spits out, grabbing my hand and limping into the bathroom, tugging me along with him. “Anything you touch—anything—goes back in the exact same spot.” Pointing at various items, he continues. “Toothpaste. Shampoo. Soap. Mouthwash. Tylenol. Everything has a place. A very precise place. Swap the Tylenol with the Imitrex or the shampoo with the toothpaste and I’m in a world of hurt. You understand?”

  “Y-yes.” The realities of his life crash down on me, and I realize what a huge deal it is that he’s even willing to have me here.

  But he’s not done. Leading me back towards the bed, he gestures to my duffel bag. “Nothing on the floor. Ever. Shoes go under the bed. All the way.” Back out in the main room, he nods at the carpet. “See the tape?”

  Small, white Xs rest under each of the chair and table legs. “Yes.”

  “I can’t. They tell my housekeeper exactly where to put the furniture when she moves it to vacuum. One inch off, and I’m going to trip and crack my head open.”

  “I get it,” I snap. “I’m sorry. This is all new to me. Being stalked. Being attacked in my home. Knowing someone…blind. Taking the bed of a man I’ve only just met while he sleeps on the couch. I’m scared and tired and fucking up all over the place. And my mistakes could hurt you.” My anger morphs into something more, something dark and terrifying, and tears tumble down my cheeks faster than I can wipe them away.

  “Evianna—”

  “No. You’re right. I need to know all this. I’m going to move my duffel bag and let the office know I’m working remotely tomorrow. Or…today, I guess, since it’s after midnight. Can I…uh…use your toothpaste? I think I forgot mine. I’ll make sure it’s put back properly.” If I have to face this man in front of me for another minute, I’m going to break down, and that’s already happened once tonight.