Chapter 2
GEORGIE
My life was hell.
I blew out a breath and sank down in a chair at the rickety table.
The scent of old cigarette smoke and musty blankets tickled my nose.
My hotel room wasn’t the seediest place I’d ever stayed, but it was definitely a far-distant cousin to the fancy suites at the swanky casinos on the Strip.
This was at the outer fringe of Las Vegas’ glitz.
I scraped a hand through my hair, pushing back the drowning sense of despair. God, grief felt like a million razor blades cutting my skin. I still couldn’t believe how one day my life was good, and the next, I’d lost everything.
Chest tight, I rubbed my fist against my breastbone. I knew I should get some dinner. But as always, I wasn’t hungry. I was never hungry.
You need the strength, Georgie.
For what? I closed my eyes. I had nothing worth living for.
Once, I’d been part of a wonderful family. I’d had loving parents, a protective older brother, and an annoying younger sister. A sister I could gossip with, argue with, tease.
We’d lived in an idyllic, small town. I’d had life at my feet. I was going to go to college; I was going to get a corporate job. I’d be part of some high-flying, executive team, and wear cool suits.
God, that na?ve girl felt a million miles away. Pushing myself upright, I walked over to the mini fridge and grabbed a Diet Coke. I cracked the can open, then dropped down on the saggy bed. It gave an alarming creak.
All those dreams were gone.
It felt like a faded, distant dream.
It had all started when my mom had gotten sick. She’d battled cancer and I’d given up my dream of going to college in California to help dad take care of her. I’d attended a smaller, local college instead. We’d lost her just after my brother Elliot enrolled in the military.
I squeezed my eyes closed, as pain and grief swamped me.
My fingers clenched the soda can. I missed my mom.
The vibrant woman who’d loved to bake and hum as she did chores.
Grief filled me like an endless sea. It ebbed and flowed, and every now and then, a wave came from nowhere and crashed over me, dragging me under.
I sipped the drink and tasted nothing.
I’d thrown myself into caring for my sister. Viv had grieved by going off the rails. I’d watched her get wilder and wilder. Our mother had named us. She’d wanted elegant names for her girls. Georgiana and Vivienne. She’d never once called us Georgie and Viv.
I rubbed between my eyes, willing my headache to go away, and sighed. “Oh, Viv.” I’d tried to help her. Dad had been confused and had been no help at all. He was sure she was just going through a phase.
Then Elliot had died in Afghanistan.
Grief gripped me with sharp claws. That’s when my family had split at the seams. The loss of him on top of my mother had been nearly debilitating. Dad died a year later of a broken heart. I’d finished college, but never gotten to live my dreams.
Nope, I’d learned that life didn’t grant me dreams. It just liked to kick me in the teeth.
I’d worked at the local bank to get by. Meanwhile, Viv had dreams of being a singer.
“I’m going to be a famous popstar, Georgie. You’ll see. One day, we’ll drive down Rodeo Drive in a limo, sipping pink champagne.”
The memory felt like a rock lodged in my stomach.
What Viv had gotten instead was a nightmare.
She’d been prey to the worst sort of predator. And now she was gone, too.
The grief of losing my sister was sharp and new, edged with fangs, and wrapped in guilt.
Oh, Viv.
All I had left was pain.
I was so damn alone.
Hunching my shoulders, I pulled my knees up to my chest, but I didn’t cry.
I hadn’t cried since Elliot’s funeral. I couldn’t. Everything felt like it was trapped inside me.
And I detested feeling sorry for myself. It didn’t help a damn thing.
I shifted and set the can of Diet Coke on the cheap, scratched bedside table that looked like it was staying upright by prayer alone. As I moved, I felt my healing bruises tug and my arm ache. I should have my sling on.
Closing my eyes, I laid back on the lumpy pillows and hard mattress. I let one sneaky thought take over. The little thing I gave myself when I needed to feel less alone.
The memory of the boy I’d crushed on.
My brother’s best friend.
Nathaniel Shawn Hagen.
Most people had called him Nathaniel or Nate, but those closest to him had called him Nash—an amalgam of the first few letters of his first and middle names.
He’d lived down the street from us. His parents had been older, and he’d been a surprise baby for them later in life.
He’d been tall, handsome, with thick, brown hair, and piercing blue eyes.
Smiling, I felt my frozen muscles loosen. I’d had so many teenage-girl fantasies about him. Of course, he hadn’t seen me that way. I’d just been his best friend’s pesky little sister.
Until he and Elliott had come back on leave from the Navy for my mom’s funeral. I’d been seventeen, and he was twenty-one.
He was the most gorgeous creature I’d ever seen.
And finally, he’d seen me.
He’d given me the best kiss of my life under the maple tree in my parents’ front yard.
I remembered that I’d trembled everywhere.
“So damn pretty, Georgie.” He’d cupped my face. “Grow up a little bit more. Use that clever brain of yours.” His thumb stroked over my cheek, and my eyelashes had fluttered, matching the butterflies in my belly. “I’ll be back.”
“Okay, Nash.”
His blue eyes had bored into mine. “See you when I come back. Okay?”
It had been a promise.
I nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”
But when his parents died, he didn’t come home.
It hadn’t been a promise. It had been a lie.
Elliot hadn’t said much except that Nash had been recruited into a special program, with special missions, and he couldn’t get away.
When Elliot died, he hadn’t come home.
When my dad died, he didn’t come home, either.
I knew then that Nathaniel Hagen was never coming back.
Then Viv had needed me, and after being angry and sad at Nash, I’d locked his memory away.
But I did remember a rushed phone call with Elliot just before he’d died. It had been over a bad connection. He’d sounded tired and distracted, but he’d told me that if I was ever in trouble, to contact Nash.
He’ll always help you out, Georgie. What he’s turning into…he’s enough to scare the biggest bad away.
Maybe Elliot had some subconscious inkling of his impending death in a firefight.
That had been the last time I’d spoken with my brother. Grief closed my throat. He’d died a hero in an ambush, saving several soldiers.
Then Viv had moved to Las Vegas to chase her dreams.
She’d taken one suitcase, her old, beaten-up car, three hundred dollars, and a head full of dreams.
Then, the life I’d once had was completely over. No family, no crush, no dream job.
I rose and went into the tiny bathroom to splash some water on my face. I ignored the mirror. I didn’t need to see my healing black eye. The doctor had said I was lucky I hadn’t lost any vision.
Back in the room, I grabbed a bag of chips I’d bought earlier and ripped it open. I had to get some calories into me.
My cellphone pinged and vibrated on the table.
Every muscle in my body went taut. I fought not to throw up the Diet Coke I’d drunk.
Woodenly, I reached for the phone. I had no friends anymore.
I’d sold our house in Elk Falls. It was a funny thing when all your family died; a lot of your friends drifted away.
I’d run into people on the street and they were awkward, didn’t know what to say.
I realized that my grief was a drag on their lives.
These days, only one person messaged me.
It didn’t matter that I repeatedly changed my number. He still found me.
Steeling myself, I pressed my lips together and thumbed the screen. I’d learned that you had to face the shit life threw at you head on. Ignoring it, avoiding it, or trying to dodge it, none of that worked.
Nothing made it better anyway.
I clicked on the message.
The text was just an image.
Of my now-dead sister.
Bile filled my mouth. In it, she was kneeling and strung out, no doubt high on blow, with her mascara smudged. A naked man stood beside her, only his thigh and hard cock visible, her fingers wrapped around him.
I pressed delete.
Not that it would help. It wouldn’t erase the image from my head, and the man who’d killed her would keep sending the images and videos.
He loved to torment me.
He was a sick fuck—rich, powerful, and untouchable. My hands curled into fists, my knuckles white.
He’d lured Viv with promises of a singing contract, and a gig in his hot Las Vegas club.
He’d romanced her with flowers and dinners and expensive gifts.
He’d gotten her addicted to cocaine, then started sharing her around with his friends, employees, business associates.
He’d beaten her, abused her, and trafficked her.
Helplessness welled, but so did my rage.
Rage was so much better than sadness, grief, or helplessness.
I grabbed onto it.
I’d come here to Las Vegas to save Viv. Instead, I’d gotten the shit beaten out of me, and now Viv was dead.
Now, I only had one thing to live for.
Taking down Dean Snyder.
Revenge, justice, retribution. I didn’t care what it was called.
I wanted him to pay for Viv, and I wouldn’t let him hurt another young woman with stars in her eyes.
He’d crushed what was left of my soul.
Now, he’d feel my rage.
Methodically, I grabbed the chips and made myself eat them, crunching on autopilot.
The memory of Nash, his low laugh that I’d loved, popped into my head, but I pushed it away. I’d thought about finding him. I’d actually contacted a hacker who’d said he could find anyone. He hadn’t been able to find him. I took it as a sign that Nash was the past.
I was alone. There was nothing and no one to help me, but also no one to hold me back.
I would get revenge for my sister.
Whatever it took.