Chapter Nineteen
Damion
I don’t have any intentions of allowing Alana the time to panic in the sardine box of an elevator.
Strategy one is to punch the “up” button before we ever enter the car and then wrap my arms around her, walk her into the tiny space, and hold her snugly against me. Strategy two is to distract her and get her talking. “You know I’m going to be overbearingly protective from this point on, right?” I ask her as the doors creep shut.
Her chin lifts, and her eyes are thoughtful as they meet mine. “I don’t need you to be protective, Damion, but I really do appreciate that you are.” Her focus is on me and only me, her soft fingers trailing my jaw. “I just need you, you know?”
Her voice cracks and her eyes glaze, while I’m one big ball of self-hatred. I let this happen. I let all of this happen. My inaction is why her father is dead. And I’m not sure how I make that up to her. “I need you, too, baby.” The car halts, and I cup her face, holding her gaze to mine. “We’re still underground,” I warn. “There’s a flight of stairs up to the top level.”
“I really am okay, Damion. I promise.”
I don’t believe her, but as we step into the tiny concrete room, it’s true that she seems calm and collected, though she doesn’t waste any time climbing the stairs to exit to the lobby. Once I’ve joined her up top, I find Savage checking on her, and he gives me a nod of approval before stepping back and offering us space. I catch her arms and pull her to me. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she assures me. “I’m mostly over my claustrophobia.”
“That’s not what Blake said.”
“Today was different. It was the darkness in that room combined with not knowing where I was, who I was with, or what was coming at me.” She presses her hands to my chest and lowers her head a moment before tilting her chin up to look at me. “I really need that food.”
“We can stop and get something.”
“No. No, I want to go home . You have no idea how badly.”
I don’t think she can possibly know how much I wanted to hear those words from her. I’ve done too many things to send her the wrong messages over the years, but I plan to fix that. “And I want to take you home, baby.” I motion to Savage that we’re ready.
A few minutes later, we’re in the back of an SUV with him in the driver’s spot, and he’s handing Alana a Gatorade through the break in the two seats. “Drink it,” he orders. “You show signs of dehydration.”
Alana accepts it and sips, with Savage watching her closely in the mirror. Only after he’s sure she’s gulped a good bit does he face forward and pull us onto the road. Alana stares at the building that was her prison for several hours as we depart, and she murmurs, “I never liked that apartment.” She glances at me. “Did you know that?”
“I didn’t. Why?”
“I know you know that despite living next door to you, I always felt we were lesser than your family.” When I open my mouth to object, she holds up a hand. “I know I’m not less than you, Damion, but—in some ways, that’s because of you, but truly, that’s something for later. The point is, selling our house felt like it was a necessary act of survival, and yet we moved to an apartment that said otherwise. But I knew better. I felt it. We were always living above our means. And maybe that was because my father was gambling even back then.”
Savage’s gaze collides with mine in the mirror, and the look on his face says yes; Walker has dug deep enough into their family history to know everything she never could without them. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, not when she’s already cut and bleeding. “I don’t know if you should tear yourself up over the past, sweetheart.” I tap the Gatorade. “Drink.”
She laughs and says, “Probably not a good idea without a bathroom nearby. I have not been in a very long time. I have no concept of how long I was gone. But either way, drinking this before there is a bathroom might be a problem.”
“Drink it anyway, wench,” Savage calls out. “The fact that you haven’t needed to pee and didn’t ask to go right away when we freed you supports my diagnosis of dehydration.”
“I need a nickname for you, too, Savage. One worthy of my wench name.”
“Bring it, wench, but drink as you throw deliciously rude names at me.”
“So, you admit wench is rude?” she challenges, and I officially like Savage a little more than before. He not only took care of her in that basement, he’s too smart not to be aware of the way he’s distracting her from the topic of her father’s gambling.
“What fun would a nickname be if it’s not rude, at least to someone?” Savage counters.
“What sucks right now,” Alana says, “is that I got nothing for a comeback. I can’t think of one nickname at all that suits you.”
“As long as it’s not little bitch, I can handle it. I have a strong dislike for little bitch. It makes me want to punch someone—not you, but someone. It’s like my Power Ranger ignition switch. The asshole who calls me that might as well have said, ‘Savage, will you punch me in the face?’”
“That’s too bad,” Alana says thoughtfully. “I was going to suggest little bitch. Now I have nothing.”
Just call me Twinkles,” he replies. “I promise to be wildly embarrassed.”
“I don’t think anything embarrasses you, Savage,” she teases in the midst of a laugh. “I mean, Twinkles.”
Savage pulls up in front of the building where Smith is waiting on us. “Give me a minute,” Savage says, and exits the vehicle to meet Smith at the hood.
“What do you want to eat?” I ask Alana.
“You still owe me a pizza, if I remember correctly,” she says, referencing that night so many years ago, smiling up at me as she does, but that smile does not reach her eyes. All that banter between her and Savage has offered me a false sense of her being far better than this moment suggests.
“I owe you a pizza, and you owe me a kiss, remember?”
“I’m fairly certain you’ve received your kiss and then some,” and her eyes light with the idea, as if kissing me is everything.
I think it’s more.
Savage knocks on the window, and I cup her face and kiss her. “Now for the pizza.” I knock back, and Savage opens the door.
Once I’ve helped Alana exit the backseat, it’s clear that Savage is not going away. He’s hovering and obviously intent on coming upstairs with us. It’s not ideal. I really wanted to enter the apartment— our apartment —with her and have that moment mean something. Apparently, Alana feels the same. We reach our front door, and she whirls on him. “I’m fine, Savage. I need to be done right now. I need time with Damion. I need a shower. I need to just wash this day off of me. Please. We’ll call you if I’m not well.”
Savage studies her long and hard while I take the lead. I open the already unlocked door. “Go shower, baby,” I say softly. “I’ll order the pizza. I’m just going to stay and talk to Savage a minute.”
Savage’s expression is sour grapes, but he motions her away as well.
“Thanks, Twinkles,” she says, and then she’s gone, disappearing inside and shutting the door firmly behind her, as if she wants to be sure we don’t follow.
And I don’t. I need to know about the man Walker captured in that basement. I need to know there is nothing else coming at us, and specifically Alana. At least, not imminently.
I scrub my jaw and settle my hands on my hips, and for now, Savage has my full attention. “Talk to me about the man you captured. Who is he?”
“A Russian national. One of our men, Kellan—you haven’t met him—spent time in Russia. He knows how to talk the right kind of trash in Russian. He’s flying in to have a ‘chat’ with him.”
“When will he be here?”
“Bastard is slow-going. Not until morning.”
“And what happens to the suspect in the meantime?”
“We gave him some coloring books to keep him busy.”
In other words, don’t ask questions. “What happens after your man talks to him?”
“A lavish trip to the Hamptons,” he says, and then in a firmer voice. “Stop asking questions. You hired us to protect you. And the Walker brothers are as ethical as they get, but they also know how not to fuck us or themselves.”
“And how ethical are you , Savage?”
“As ethical as my wife keeps me, man, and considering where I’ve been and what I have in me, that’s giving her a lot of credit.” He motions to the door. “Let her do the same thing for you. It’s the smart move. I’ll be near.” He rotates, walks toward the exit door, and disappears into the stairwell.
I don’t linger on his warnings or advice. I have Alana on my mind. I turn and enter the apartment with every intention of holding onto her until it’s not possible. Until saving her means letting her go. Ironically, it’s what she was trying to do with me, but it’s me who is supposed to save her. And I will, one way or the other, no matter what sacrifice I have to make.