Everything for Us
Page 10

The first, of course, was when he showed up with Cash to rescue me. I can still remember hearing his voice, so distinguishable from Cash’s. So stern yet so safe. Familiar, but not in the way I would’ve expected. I felt protected all the way home, even though he hardly spoke. And now, here he is doing it again, tonight.
But why? Why now?
The answer comes as quickly as the question.
Maybe it’s because now he thinks I’m worth saving.
Pushing the troubling thoughts aside, I opt for a bright smile. “Thank you. I’d love one.”
As he leads me away, I glance back over my shoulder to see Millicent flounce off to rejoin her fiancé, Richardson “Rick” Pyle, whom she’d left behind when she spotted me. I’m sure she’ll give him an earful as soon as it’s acceptable to do so. It won’t be long before, one by one, everyone I know is given a perverted version of what just happened. And guess who the bad guy will be? Nash’s voice penetrates the chaos in my mind. “Not the cakewalk you thought it’d be, huh?” he asks quietly. I glance up at him again. He’s facing forward, but I imagine his expression is one of smugness. It’s upsetting when I realize that, despite what just happened, Nash doubts that I’m strong enough to change. That I have changed.
The realization is a devastating blow to my fragile confidence. I say nothing to him because, on some level, I’m wondering the same thing. Can I really change? Should it be this much of a struggle? Or am I just as irrevocably damaged as these people?
We stop in front of the elegantly appointed bar. Without asking what I’d like, Nash orders—a vodka martini, dirty, for me and a Heineken for him. I wait until the bartender is busy fixing my drink before I say anything.
“Are you just that good? Or am I just that easy to read?”
Nash shrugs. “You seem like a martini girl.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, his expression dark and steamy. “And, when you’re not kissing ass, I’d say you’re a dirty one.”
I brush off the first part of his comment and focus on the latter half. I feel my face flush. It spreads all the way down my chest, making me feel hot and damp. I resist the urge to fan.
I don’t know how to respond to his suggestive assessment, so I simply don’t. “You don’t seem like a beer guy. I would’ve thought something harder.”
The words are out before I realize my response is every bit as suggestive as his was.
Ohmigod!
“I can get a lot harder,” he says in his low, velvety voice. “But tonight, I think drinking a beer will cement their trashy impression of me.”
“So you want them to think you’re less than them?”
“No, they can think whatever the hell they want. I’m definitely not less than them, regardless of my hair or my drink. I ordered a beer because, not only do I happen to like it, I also get a kick out of knowing that it bugs the shit out of these judgmental assholes having someone like me, someone with long hair and tattoos, walking around at their fancy party.”
I can see by the twist at the corner of his mouth that he’s pleased with himself and his rebellion. I wish I could be so blasé about what they think and how they judge. But right now, I can’t. I have to fight it every step of the way. Every baby step of the way.
Maybe one day I’ll get there. Maybe.
So many maybes lately, and I keep piling them on. The disequilibrium of it, the uncertainty of it suddenly feels like a suffocating hand over my mouth, much like the one that I felt just before I passed out and woke up in captivity a few days ago.
Panic sets in and a cold sweat pops out on my forehead. All I can think of is the need for air. And wide open spaces.
Freedom.
Frantic, I search for a way out. I spot the balcony doors directly across the room, behind Nash. The never-ending expanse of black night just beyond them looks like heaven.
“I think I need some air,” I say before I set off in that direction, not waiting for Nash’s response.
Thankfully, the balcony is empty when I step out onto it. I go straight to the railing and lean my hip against it. Reaching out, I lay one palm along the cool wrought iron, letting the refreshing temperature of the metal permeate the rest of my body like a soothing summer breeze.
I remind myself I’m safe, that I’m here in this moment, not back in the most terrifying one of my life.
I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.
“Are you okay?”
Nash’s voice is a barely discernible rumble in the moonlight.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Something happened. Tell me what it was.”
He’s about as sensitive and tactful as a bull in a china shop, stating the obvious and then demanding answers. But I know that’s just the way he is. I’m not sure he’s capable of more. Or ever will be. Nash is hard, rougher around the edges than probably anyone I know. And profoundly broken, I think.
But then again, so am I.
I turn around, putting the rail at my back, ready to give him some semblance of an answer, but the words die on my tongue. He’s standing in front of me, taking a sip of his beer, watching me with his raven eyes. Something about the scene—the balcony, the balmy air, the beer, Nash, me—seems so familiar. It’s almost like déjà vu.
A gush of warmth sweeps through me, stealing my breath. I have no idea where it came from or why, but I’m so aroused I feel hot all over. And moist.
“What is it?” he asks, his eyebrows knit together in a frown.
“I don’t know. Something about you and . . . and this balcony and you drinking beer . . . I don’t know. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Familiar almost. Weird,” I say casually, trying to blow if off, but feeling anything but nonchalant.
Don’t tear his clothes off! Don’t tear his clothes off!
My palm is sweaty beneath the bowl of my glass. The fingers of my other hand curl around the wrought iron at my back when he takes a step closer to me.
He stops only inches from me. He stares down into my face for a moment, thoughtfully, before he raises his beer bottle to my mouth and rolls it across my bottom lip. “Yeah. Weird.”
We stay like this for a couple of torturous minutes. All I can think about is how much I want him to kiss me, to touch me, to take me in his arms and drown out everything and everyone else.
But he doesn’t. Without a word, he steps back, turns slightly to the side, and takes another swig of his beer.
Almost like he didn’t feel a thing.
THIRTEEN
Nash
“So, why have you never asked questions about me and Cash? Why weren’t you surprised, or at least confused, when I drove you to your father’s house after the kidnapping? You can’t tell me you didn’t at least wonder who I was.” I stare out into the night, careful to keep my eyes off her.
I hope Marissa doesn’t think my abrupt change of subject is suspicious. I didn’t want her to keep thinking about the balcony. She’s getting too close. Too close to a memory I don’t want her to find. Too close to something I want to forget. But something I can’t forget.
I force it from my mind, determined not to think on it. I see now that it was a mistake to follow her out here.
I can’t help but be curious what she knows, though. If that’s why I catch her staring at me so often. What will she think of me if she ever puts two and two together?
“I’ll admit it was shocking to see you, but more shocking than confusing because I already knew what was going on.”
I turn my head slightly, just enough to see her. I arch my brow. “And you expect me to believe that? That you just figured it out?”
She frowns. “Oh. No. That’s not how it happened. I found out while I was being held captive. I overheard two men talking.”
“Ahhh,” I say. That makes much more sense. Marissa is astute enough to catch on, but I’m sure Cash limited the amount of time he let anyone who knew him see him as both Cash and Nash. He wouldn’t take a reckless risk like that. It would have been difficult for Marissa to realize the truth—especially when she had no reason to suspect he was playing both brothers. When I think of her answer, though, it still doesn’t make sense. No one should’ve known until after we had possession of Marissa. “Exactly what did they say?”
“Just that one of their plants had called in the night before and said that one of you had been pretending to be both twins, but that the other one—the real one—was back.”
“A ‘plant’?”
She nods again. “That’s what he said. Or at least that’s what it sounded like he said. He had a very thick accent.”
“Russian?”
“Yes, it sounded like it.”
I feel my frown deepen right along with my concern. “And this guy said the plant called in the night before? When was it that you overheard this?”
“Um, the day you brought me home, I think. They kept me bound and gagged and blindfolded almost the entire time, so my sense of time is skewed. When I think back to those hours, I can’t . . . seem . . . to . . .”
A shiver passes through her and she closes her eyes for a second. It’s plain to see she’s still shaken by the whole thing. I’m sure most people in her position would be. She just puts on such a good front that it’s easy to forget she’s been through a traumatic experience. And very recently, too. I guess with everything that’s going on, the movement of time seems, by turns, inordinately fast or inordinately slow.
I suppose all of our lives are in a kind of holding pattern until we get this over and done with, and behind us. And, like it or not, we’re all in this together. These bastards have adversely affected and touched each of our lives.
I think over the timeline. If she’s remembering correctly, that means someone tipped off the Russians on Sunday. Presumably after I arrived in town. That means they have eyes on the club most likely, which doesn’t surprise me. But was it merely someone in the club, a patron? Or was it someone . . . closer? Closer to Cash? Someone on the inside?
He’s been pretty cautious, so I’m inclined to think it was someone watching him and watching his life from the perspective of a clubber.
I growl through my gritted teeth.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Cash is a godda—” I catch myself before I finish the phrase. I guess some parts of the old me never died, like the ingrained urge to watch my language around a lady. “He’s a damned idiot for trusting any of you people.”
“Any of ‘you people,’” she says, clearly taking exception. “I know you can’t possibly mean me.”
“And why the hell not? You might be the worst one of them all.”
“How could you even say that? I’ve done nothing to deserve your distrust.”
I scoff. “Maybe not, but you’ve done nothing to earn my trust, either.”
“So not telling anyone who you really are isn’t enough to rate a little trust?”
“Hell no! It serves your purposes just as much as mine. I can just imagine the kind of social shitstorm you’d stir up if you told anybody about the man you thought was Nash.” My laugh is bitter. “No, don’t act like you’re doing me some big favor. Your motives are selfish, just like the rest of us.”
“You can’t go through life not trusting anyone.”
“Watch me,” I snap.
She looks wounded, no doubt some kind of feminine ploy practiced specifically to manipulate. Well, it won’t work on me. She’s not getting under my skin. I want her; that’s no secret. But that’s the only thing I’m interested in—sex. Nothing more. I even did the right thing and warned her about me. If she chooses to ignore that warning, that’s on her.
“I think this was a mistake,” she says, her voice small in the heavy air.
“Let me give you a valuable tip about people and life. Everybody wants something. Everybody. As soon as you can get that through your head, the better off you’ll be.”
She looks down at her hands as she toys with the stem of her martini glass. “And what is it that you want?”
“Revenge,” I bite out. “Justice.” She nods slowly but doesn’t look back up at me. Again, I think of my goal to have those long, long legs wrapped around me. I should hide it from her. Woo her instead. No doubt it’s what the high-society types expect. But that’s exactly why I won’t do either. I want to shock her. I want her to know that I change for no one. I yield to no one. “And a few hours alone with you.”
I want her to be clear about my intentions. Because we will be sleeping together. And sooner rather than later. I’m the kind to take what I want. She needs to know that.
It won’t change anything. I know when a woman is already mine. And this one is.
Much to her detriment, probably. But again, that’s on her. She can’t say I didn’t warn her.
* * *
On our way out, Marissa does her best to stick to the wall and dodge virtually everyone in the room. Again, I think to myself that this isn’t easy for her, letting this life go, letting this person go. And this is just the first night. What does she think will happen after word gets out? Or when she goes back to work? When she’s shunned? I should probably warn her that she doesn’t have it in her, that she’s nowhere near strong enough. But then again, it’s not my place, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut.
An attractively curvaceous girl stops Marissa just as she’s trying to dart toward the exit, the home stretch. She has chin-length blond hair, a nice rack, and h*ps to hang on to. I’m sure most of Marissa’s friends call her fat, but I’m also sure most of Marissa’s friends are anorexic bitches, so . . .