Forsaken Read online

  “I don’t give a damn about my waistline,” I say, stuffing my wrapper in the bag. “And if you’re telling the truth, you aren’t going to die. I won’t let you.” I pull onto the road again. “Unless I fall asleep at the wheel. In which case, we both just had our final meal.”

  “Well, thank you for wiping out my momentary comfort. Good thing you aren’t a doctor. You’d have a horrible bedside manner.” She drapes her new Walmart hoodie over her lower body and turns toward me, folding her legs in front of her on the seat between us. “I’d offer to drive again, but I know you’re not going to let me. Sooo, back to Plan B: How about them Cowboys?”

  Desperate for anything to stop my mind’s continuous instant replay of the fact of Jared’s damning silence, I decide ‘what the hell’ and reply with, “They never should have fired Jimmy Johnson.”

  “Isn’t that the truth? You know Jimmy has to be secretly gloating at Jerry’s failure to run the team himself.”

  Impressed with her reply, I test her knowledge with a number of questions and find myself in a worthy debate over the merits of certain players, and eventually shift topics from the Cowboys to the Longhorns. Miraculously, I blink and an hour has passed and we aren’t far from Lubbock. I’ve avoided both sleep and all the demons running around in my head, causing havoc. “How’d you get so into sports?”

  “Texans love our football. My father certainly did.”

  “Did?” I ask, seizing the first opportunity I have to find out more about her. “Why past tense?”

  “He’s gone. Car accident years ago.”

  I don’t miss the choked sound of her voice that she tries to cover by clearing her throat, nor do I offer her an awkward expression of sympathy that solves nothing. “And your mother?”

  “Died of an aneurysm while giving birth.”

  “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “It was an underlying condition triggered by the stress of labor.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “I didn’t know her, so I don’t feel the impact the way I do with losing my father. It’s more like this empty hole in my life that is ever present.”

  I give her a quick glance. “Any siblings to help fill that void?”

  “I was the first for my parents, and my father never remarried.”

  “That’s a long time to never remarry.”

  “He was terrified of losing me. I don’t think he had the capacity to fear losing someone else. And he was passionate about his work. It consumed him.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Both of my parents were researchers for the University of Texas in Houston. That’s where I grew up.”

  “Impressive. I come from a family of archeologists. I suspect we both had some interesting dinner-table conversations.” I pause a moment and shake my head, the realization hitting me. “Wait. Research? Is that how you learned to make a bomb?”

  She laughs a bit sadly. “Yes and no. My father said I had a knack for making things that weren’t supposed to blow up quite explosive. It terrified him. Needless to say, my lab time was quite stressful to my father.”

  I inhale, her explanation jolting me with a realization: She set a bomb. A bomb blew up my family home. It’s a close connection I do not like. “How is it that your father was a researcher and you ended up a secretary in Austin?”

  “I finished college at Berkeley, but California didn’t suit me. The university offered me a job, but the program was cut before I got home. I tried to stay, but without the university, all I had was missing him.”

  “You’re a chemist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Working as a secretary,” I press again.

  “I was with Sheridan as a chemist for almost a year, then there were layoffs, and I was kept on as a secretary.”

  It’s a ridiculous story. Completely fucking ridiculous. “You know I can check all of this, right?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “How old are you?” I ask, trying to find truth of my own.

  “Twenty-six.”

  Four years younger than me, which would have made her only twenty when my parents were burned alive. But that means nothing. I did a lot of shit at twenty I’m not proud of. I reach down and turn up the radio, needing out of this conversation and back into my own head. Trying to put the pieces together again, with Gia as a possible part of the puzzle. Could she have been there that nightmare of a night six years ago? Or maybe her father? My gut says no, but something doesn’t add up with her. In the absence of Jared’s aid, I’m going to have to use one of my familiar private for-hire contractors to check her out.

  Gia seems to get that we’re done talking, and lies down across the seat again, but she isn’t sleeping. I sense her unease, her alertness. I wonder if she regrets the story she just told me, or simply everything about tonight, the way I regret so many of my decisions. It’s a thought that shifts me back in time, and I am twenty-two again and of the opinion that I am invisible, refusing to listen to my father’s always sound advice. I can almost smell the smoke and wood from the crackling fire my father and I sat around that night, years ago, almost taste the strong-ass coffee we were drinking.

  “You don’t have to run around the globe with this ‘treasure hunting’ operation chasing God-knows-what for rich old farts.”

  “Isn’t that what we do, anyway?” I argue. “Treasure hunt?”

  “You’re chasing money, not history, and history is often the key to the future.”

  “Sheridan wants me to locate a piece of art for him, Father. It’s not that big a deal, and he’s offered to wipe away your debt to him.”

  “He’s the wrong person to get into bed with.”

  “You borrowed money from him to fund this dig site.”

  “Which is how I know he’s the wrong person to get in bed with.”

  I drift into more of those moments, revisiting my mistakes, promising myself that Gia won’t be one of them, until near dawn, when we finally enter Lubbock, Texas. After surveying my options, I pull in to one of the many cheap motels in the city, this one with not a big rig in sight, which is the idea. We don’t need CBs radioing us in to Sheridan for cash, and we don’t need lobby cameras or extra eyes.

  Beside me, Gia stirs and I flatten my hand on her shoulder. “Stay down. We’re at a motel, and Sheridan will have a reward out for a man and a woman fitting our description.”

  She slides onto the floorboard and sits, the hoodie over her legs again. “Where are we?”

  “A motel,” I repeat, irritated at the way the soft, sexy whisper of her voice radiates through me. I let down my guard while we were driving, the way I let down my guard with Meg, and it can’t happen again.

  “Which city?” she presses.

  “The one we’re spending the night in.” I grab a baseball cap from a bag behind the seat and tuck my way-too-long blond hair underneath it to hide the color. Climbing out of the truck, I say, “I’ll be right back, and don’t even think about getting out and finding a phone. The motel has an outdoor check-in and the window is right in front of the truck.”

  “Darn. I really wanted to call Sheridan and ask him to go ahead and kill me and get it over with.”

  “You’re brave for a prisoner.”

  “And you’re tolerant for a killer.”

  “I told you. I’m not planning to kill you.”

  “I hate that word, planning.”

  I think of the bomb she set, and my temper flares as hard and fast as the fire that killed my parents. “Let me make this real damn clear,” I bite out. “No reading between the lines. If you were in any way responsible for my parents being burned alive, then you’re dead. If anything happened to Amy, and you were a part of it, you’re dead. Stand between me and Sheridan, and good luck—we’ll see where that takes you. Otherwise, you’re safe.” I slam the door, every muscle in my body burning with the fierceness of my anger that isn’t even about Gia. It’s about Sheridan. It’s about me.

  Walking away,
I lower the bill of my cap, feeling zero regret over my bluntness with Gia. We’re living on the edge, and I can’t afford to operate with anything but the facts. Reaching the hotel office, I hit a buzzer, and the attendant, a white kid not more than eighteen with dreadlocks and a baseball cap, enters the glass-enclosed check-in kiosk from a back room. Barely looking at me, he takes my cash payment for a room. Considering it’s five in the morning, I pay for two nights, certain we can’t sleep and take care of business in the six hours left until checkout. I keep an uneasy eye on the truck while I wait, replaying those moments on the back porch just before the explosion: the flash of light, the crackle of sound. A shiver of unease runs up my spine. Who was behind that damn explosion? I’ve tried to find out without any success, and I damn well need to know.

  Finally, I’m given a key, and I return to the Ford, finding Gia still huddled on the floorboard. “At least you didn’t steal the truck.”

  “I didn’t know about your family,” she says, her voice raspy, affected. As if she really gives a damn. “God, Chad, I didn’t know. I promise you, I wasn’t involved. I’ll help you. Tell me what to do and I’ll help.”

  I want to believe her. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I climb into the truck and shut the door. “Don’t talk. It’s only going to rub salt in wounds neither of us need irritated right now.”

  “I understand.”

  I don’t look at her. I can’t look at her. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “No,” I say sharply. “You do not understand.” I drive around back to a twelve-unit building, the lot deserted except for us, which is good and bad: We’re alone, but we can’t exactly get lost in a crowd, either. Killing the engine in a spot in front of our door, I grab the bags from behind the seat. “Stay here and watch for my sign. I don’t want us lingering in the open together.” I don’t wait for her reply, exiting quickly and unlocking our room before motioning her forward.

  She doesn’t miss a beat, hurrying out of the vehicle with another bag in tow and the hoodie in her hand, darting past me and inside. I follow her, kicking the door shut.

  “Lock it,” I order, tossing the bags on the full-sized bed with a sunken mattress and some sort of blue blanket on top. Eyeing the window beyond a wobbly-looking wooden table, I cross the cracker box–sized room, with its scuffed walls and ugly, worn gray carpet and attempt to seal the gap in the curtains that refuse to stay shut. Grabbing one of the two chairs by the table, I force the material together, using the wooden chair back to hold it in place, and then turn on the air conditioner, which roars to life like a hundred-year-old Chevy.

  Hands on my hips, I stand there a moment with my back to Gia, dreading the next few hours alone with her in this room. Wondering what it is about her that makes me want to believe her. Questioning why I never doubted Meg. Why I believed she was helpless and alone, when she was a conniving bitch.

  Determined to control the here and now, I grab the unused tie hanging by the curtains and turn to find Gia sitting on the edge of the bed. She gives the tie, and my expression, one look and stands up. “What’s that for?”

  “I need a shower.”

  “I think there are much larger towels in the bathroom.”

  My lips quirk at the silly remark. “Always a smartass.”

  She inhales and lets it out, folding her arms in front of her chest. “Sorry. It’s a nervous thing. My dad said my mother did it too, and, well, you’re really making me nervous.”

  Her admission feels intense and sincere in a way I don’t question as authentic, real in a way I find few people I’ve known ever are real about anything, let alone their insecurities. And yet she just made it to a man calling himself her captor. It’s a level of trust I won’t give her, and that I don’t deserve to be given. I advance on her. She backs up, hitting the mattress after one step and tumbling onto it with a yelp. I’m there before she can get up, clamping my legs around her knees. She pulls herself to a sitting position, shoving against my stomach. “You’re not tying me up.”

  “It’s a necessary evil. You aren’t calling Sheridan.”

  “I hate that man,” she says vehemently. “I told you that.”

  “Even if I believe you—”

  “Stop calling me a liar.”

  “Truth or fiction, it changes nothing. Safe is better than sorry.” I reach for her hands, but she keeps squirming, desperately trying to get away. “That’s it,” I murmur roughly, shackling her wrists and laying her flat on the mattress. I follow her down, straddling her hips and pressing her hands over her head.

  “No!” she yells, still trying to shift or twist with zero success before giving up and glaring at me. “Get off of me. Get off!”

  “Calm down, Gia.”

  “Calm down? Have those two words ever been spoken to a woman successfully? You’re on top of me! I’m not going to calm down.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to rape or murder me. I think someone could come through that door while I’m tied up, and I’ll be helpless.”

  “I’ll handle whoever comes through that door.”

  “Not if you’re in the shower. And you told me not to trust you.”

  I stare at her. She stares back at me, and a battle of wills ensues, crackling with challenge that slowly shifts to something darker, hotter, and I reply with a low, rough tone. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” I murmur, and suddenly I’m staring at her lips, her full, kissable, tempting lips. A mix of adrenaline and lust rushes through me, barely contained. My mouth lowers, my need to lose myself in this moment, in this woman a fierce beast that does not want to be ignored.

  “Don’t,” she whispers urgently.

  “Don’t what?” I ask, lingering a breath away from touching her face, so close I can almost taste her.

  “Kiss me again. Because I’ll kiss you back, and we’ll both hate me for it.”

  She’s right. But I still want to kiss her.

  “Please,” she whispers.

  “Please kiss you? Please tie you up and fuck you like you’ve never been fucked? Please make you come so many times you’ll never forget who you fucked if you fuck me over?”

  “Please don’t do any of those things.”

  “Because you don’t want me to?”

  “I already told you why. You’ll hate me later. And I’ll hate me for giving you the chance.”

  “And what about me? Will you hate me?”

  “I don’t have a reason to hate you, Chad. I don’t know you.”

  “But you want me.”

  “I don’t know the right answer to that.”

  “The truth will set you free.”

  “The truth can’t set you free if no one believes you.”

  Something about those words rips through me and cuts deeply. It’s some long-buried memory that I can’t seem to call to the surface, but it shakes me to my senses. Am I really about to bed a woman I was ready to believe helped kill my parents less than an hour ago? What the hell am I doing? I pull her arms forward and quickly wrap them.

  “You’re still tying me up?” she demands, sounding desperate. “Why? Please.”

  “I told you not to say please.”

  “You didn’t say—”

  “I am now.” I stand and pull her to her feet.

  “This isn’t necessary. I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t even know how to hot-wire the truck. You can take the phone cord.”

  “You knew how to make a bomb.”

  “I explained that.”

  “You’re just full of answers. And I’m full of questions. Come with me.” I start leading her toward the bathroom.

  “I can’t go in there with you. What are you doing?”

  Stopping, I face her. “I told you. I always have a plan. I’m keeping you close and safe.”

  “No. You need privacy.”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t give a fuck about privacy. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” I start walking again and she tugs against me. Grind
ing my teeth, I give her a hard look. “My need for a shower and sleep is making me real damn cranky. Don’t make me carry you.”

  She glowers, but she’s smart enough to follow this time as I lead her into the canister-sized shithole of a bathroom and seat her on the toilet. “Make yourself comfortable.” Anticipating her compliance, I return to the bedroom and snag the second tie dangling from the curtains. Returning to the bathroom, I kneel at Gia’s feet, grabbing her ankles and wrapping them just tight enough to be sure she can’t escape.

  My hands settle on her knees, and when our eyes meet, hers burn with defiance, anger—but there is more there as well. There is the kind of simmering heat a man sees in a woman’s eyes when she wants him. She knows it, too, lowering her lashes. Trying to hide it. Enemy. Ally. It doesn’t seem to matter. Right now, we’re alone, us against the devil himself.

  “Seems the tide has turned and we’re in reversed positions,” I taunt softly.

  Her lashes lift instantly. “I was helping you escape,” she argues.

  “And now I’m helping you escape.”

  “That’s not what this feels like.”

  “What then, Gia, does it feel like?” My voice is a low growl of heat and desire, my fingers flexing into her skin.

  “I’m tied up.”

  “Do you feel in danger?”

  “No,” she admits reluctantly. “I don’t.”

  “Then what do you feel?”

  Her beautiful blue eyes search my face, as if she’s trying to figure out whatever mystery I am to her. “Confused,” she finally confesses. “You are very confusing.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m a puzzle with so many missing pieces, even I can’t find them. Don’t try. You’ll fail.” I lean back on my haunches and lift my pant leg, grabbing my gun and placing it in between her hands. “If anyone comes in, remember your Texas roots: Shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “What? Wait. You’ve tied me up, but you’ll give me a gun?”

  “I can’t help you if you shoot me. You can’t call Sheridan to tell him our location if you’re tied up. Pretty damn clear to me why this works.” Standing, I tear my shirt off over my head and toss it away. Her eyes go wide and she gives me a fast but thorough inspection before her cheeks flush and she glances away.