Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Vicky
There are so many things I want to tell him, to ask, to demand, but I go with the most important.
“Van Wyk’s on his way.”
If Alex picks up my urgency, he shows no sign of it. He glances once at the table, scanning it swiftly, then walks to Haynes’s corpse, circling the pool of vomit I’ve left on the floor.
“Did you hear me?” I insist. “Alex, Van Wyk—”
“Yes, I heard you.” He starts frisking Haynes one-handed. He hasn’t looked at me since he executed Haynes.
“We need to get out of here.”
“Why?” Alex asks, calm curiosity in his tone, like I’ve just made a mildly interesting suggestion.
I stare at him, wondering if he’s lost in his kill, if he’s heard a single word I’ve said. “Because Van Wyk is on his way!”
“Yes.” Alex lifts the silenced pistol he holds, his back half to me, his attention still on patting down Haynes’s pockets. “I’m looking forward to seeing him.”
“No.” I shake my head even though Alex isn’t looking. “No, killing Haynes is one thing.” And I wanted it. I told him to. I gave him permission. God, who have I turned into? “But killing Van Wyk… that’s retribution.”
Alex’s search reaches Haynes’s lower leg. “Ah, I knew he’d have one.” Avoiding the bloody mess of his knee, he tugs up the dead man’s jeans, and pulls a knife from its calf-sheath. It gleams in the light. He straightens, walks to me, and cuts at my bindings. “What’s wrong with retribution?”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
We’ve just killed a man. Alex pulled the trigger, but I’m just as guilty.
I can’t tear my eyes from Haynes’s body.
The hole in his forehead, the wound in his stomach.
I could’ve stopped Alex—in that moment, he would’ve listened.
But I didn’t. I said do it, and that’s something I’ll have to live with.
Something Alex will have to live with, too. But that doesn’t seem to be bothering him; there’s not a glimmer of remorse. He’s perfectly calm.
“We need to leave,” I say. Alex has freed my hands, and my wrists are sore and stiff. Pins and needles burn like I’ve never had them before, and I can’t help but rub at them, wincing as my raw skin objects.
“If that’s what you want.” He bends, avoiding the vomit beneath my chair, and cuts my ankles free.
“It is.” Why would we stay? Even with a weapon, there’s no guarantee Van Wyk won’t be armed—or alone. Why take the risk?
I glance at the door, half expecting my thoughts to have summoned him. Haynes said he’d be here soon. How long do we have?
Alex checks the safety on Haynes’s gun and shoves it under the waistband of his pants. Then he crosses to the table, wipes down the knife with the last wet rag, and repeats the exercise with the gun he brought, being careful not to touch it.
I know what he’s doing: he’s removing his fingerprints. It’s smart, but… does vomit contain DNA? I don’t know. I’m not sure it matters; it’s not like mine’s on record.
God, I can’t even think. So much has happened so quickly, and I’m reeling from it all. My body aches all over, my head worst of all. I’m practically naked, my limbs are numb, there’s a dead man lying a few feet away, and I’m covered in my own vomit.
Alex has seen me like this. How could he not be repulsed?
And he told me he loved me. For the first time ever—ever—he said those three words.
Then right after, he killed a man.
If that’s not a mind-fuck, I don’t know what is.
He’s practically ignored me since then. Yes, he’s doing what needs to be done—the knife, the bindings, wiping things clean—but he’s hardly looked at me. I don’t know why.
I’m lost, emotionally bereft, as much alone as I’ve ever been, even though he’s here with me and Haynes is dead.
A sob escapes before I can bite it back.
Alex spins at the sound, concern in his eyes. “Are you all right?”
The question is so absurd it leaves me speechless. My brain cycles through a dozen scathing retorts before stalling out entirely.
Alex shakes his head. “Sorry. Reflex. Of course you’re not. What I mean is…” He grimaces, an emotion passing across his face I can’t identify. “Let’s just get out of here.”
He came for me. Whatever that message said, however he found me, he’s here. He killed a man for me, in cold blood, without hesitation, without remorse. Not for the Company, not for leverage, not for any reason in his world. He did it for me.
I nod once, then again, more vehemently. “Yes. Please.”
He hesitates, rocks forward like he’s going to help, then back again. And stands there, watching me.
Of course he doesn’t want to touch me; I’m covered in vomit. After a day spent tied in that chair, I’m not sure I can manage by myself, but I have to try. I grip the arms, levering myself up, my legs trembling. My joints are too stiff, my limbs too weak. I can’t do it, and sag back into the chair.
“Give me a minute,” I mutter.
But Van Wyk could be here any time. We don’t have a minute.
“Can I…” Alex hesitates, wearing a kicked-puppy expression that I’ve never before seen on his face. It doesn’t suit him. “Will you let me help?”
Why is he asking? I don’t understand.
“Of course.” I grimace, knowing he doesn’t want to touch me. “I’m sorry I’m covered in…” I don’t want to say it. “…such a mess.”
“I don’t care about that.” He steps forward, reaches for me, then stops. “Actually, should we take this shirt off? Would you be more comfortable?”
“Hell yes.” I glance at the table; my sweater’s there. My jeans. It’s enough.
“Do you… shall I do it?”
Do I repulse him so much? Of course I do. But he’s just said he doesn’t care about the vomit. I don’t understand this sudden reticence. The messages are so mixed. “What is it, Alex? What’s the matter? Why won’t you look at me, or touch me?”
He blinks. Twice. Meets my eyes, looks away, then back again. His jaw tightens, resolve returning. “I know you’re disgusted with me. I’m sorry for that. But I’m not sorry I killed him; I’d do it again.”
Guilt. It’s guilt. That’s why it looks so strange; I didn’t know Alex was capable of feeling it.
It’s not guilt that he killed Haynes—he’s just come straight out and told me that. It’s guilt because he thinks I’m going to reject him.
My heart flips.
“I love you,” I say softly. “You’ve never disgusted me in your life.
I don’t think you could do anything that would.
” His eyes tighten then relax. He looks like he’s about to speak, but I keep talking; I need to say it, I need him to hear it.
“I wanted you to kill Haynes. After what he did to me…” Alex’s eyes flash with pure rage, like he wants to kill him again.
Then it fades, his control reasserting itself.
“Van Wyk could be here any minute. I want to be gone before then. I can’t stand…
my legs are too weak. I’m not sure I can even dress myself.
” I pause, then say something I never thought I’d say to this man. “I need your help.”
Alex doesn’t move straight away, he just looks at me, expression unreadable. Then his eyes harden, jaw tensing, resolve returning. “Right,” he says firmly, back to the Alex I know and love. “We’re done here.”
He reaches for my shirt, and again pauses mid-motion. “One second.” He grabs the knife from the table and turns back to me. “Hold still, Tink.”
Tink. Am I being petulant right now?
No. Somewhere along the way, it’s become his name for me.
I’m okay with that.
The knife makes short work of my T-shirt, and the reason’s clear: it’s a mess. I don’t even want to look at it, the white material stained all the colors of my puke. If he’d tried to pull that off me, he’d have wiped it on my face. Consideration, too? A whole new Alex.
In seconds, I’m naked from the waist up.
“Panties too, I think. Is that all right?”
I eye his knife, momentarily uneasy. But I trust him to be careful, and that’s new too. “Don’t pretend it’s not a fantasy you’ve had.”
He blinks, thrown. Then laughs, a sound of genuine amusement. “No pretense here,” he says, pulling the side of my panties away from my skin and slicing through the material, repeating it on the other side. “Just not my venue of choice. Let’s do this again, another time.”
I’m too numb to react to that, but I won’t forget it. I’m taking it as a promise.
The knife gets tossed onto the table, and he peels the scraps of my clothing away.
Then he picks me up bodily, hands around my waist, helping me to my feet and taking most of my weight.
He half carries me to the table, perching me on it, collects the damp cloth he used to wipe down the knife, and begins to wipe me down, instead.
I shiver. Not from the wet fabric, but from the intimacy and care of it.
“Sorry it’s cold,” he says, misinterpreting my reaction. He runs the rag across my thighs, my stomach, one arm. Everywhere my own vomit has clung to my skin.
“Hurry, please.” Even though part of me doesn’t want him to stop. “Van Wyk…”
“If he comes, we’ll hear him. I have the pistol.”
It’s a small comfort, but I don’t want Alex in a fight. He closes deals, he doesn’t carry guns. I do my best to keep still, making it easier for him, and he finishes a moment later. The knife gets a last wipe down, then he swaps rag and blade for my jeans and sweater, dressing me like I’m his doll.
I’m not a doll. I am his.
“Thank you for coming for me.” Why hadn’t I said anything before now? I owe him my life.
He pauses in the act of tugging my jeans up my legs, eyes finding mine. “I’ll always come for you. Just like you’d always come for me.”
I would, it’s true. Even if I was hiding from him, I’d return if he needed me.
Damn it, I was never able to escape this man, and I didn’t even know.
But now I don’t want to. Not anymore.
He tugs my jeans up with a grin. “You’ll always come for me.”
The tone of his voice changes the meaning, and my cheeks flush red.
My sweater goes on next, then Alex kneels at my feet and slides my boots on. He looks up at me. “All done. Can you walk?”
“I can stagger.” Probably. “Consider me motivated.”
He stands, pulling the gun from his waistband. “Then let’s go.”
I discover I was right as we leave: it’s both a warehouse and a basement. The stairs nearly finish me, my legs shaking with the effort, but Alex’s hand is at my back. When we find windows, it’s dark outside.
“What time is it?”
“About ten,” he says, not bothering to check his watch, the gun held in a two-handed grip and his eyes checking everywhere. “We’re going to be late.”
“For what?”
He throws a look I now recognize as guilt. “Let’s discuss that when we’re out.”
“Okay…” Just so long as we’re not going to a fucking dance.
The smell of the harbor hits when we near the doors, salt water, diesel, and musty damp. The noise of people comes from beyond, a general hubbub and the occasional loud shout or laugh.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Red Hook.” Alex’s voice is quiet, each pace he takes careful, his feet making no sound. We’re twenty feet from the main door, and it’s closed.
“It’s teeming at this time of night,” I say, incredulous. “No one comes for screams? Gunshots?”
Alex pauses, turning to look at me, face unreadable, eyes hard. “Screams?”
“Uh…” Probably a bad time to mention that. “Gunshots?”
“No one comes for gunshots.” He doesn’t blink. “Screams?”
“Yes, screams.” I’m defensive now. “It fucking hurt, okay? You try having fifty volts shoved through a wet towel over your head.” I shudder at the memory, all my aches returning. It’s no wonder I’m fragile. Twelve hours immobile, shock torture, dehydration. “And I’m dying of thirst.”
Alex tightens his jaw, and I swear I hear teeth grinding. “I’m going to… kill him slowly.”
“No, you’re going to get us out of here.” I step forward, into his space, and press my hand to his chest, over his heart. “Focus, Alex. I need you.”
He blinks, eyes clearing, face relaxing. Then he nods. “Right.”
And my heart squeezes. I wasn’t even sure that would work, let alone be so effective. But he’s just confirmed what I could only dream of: I matter to him. More than revenge, more than possession. He doesn’t just want me, he values me.
Wanting and valuing are a big step forward. Massive.
Maybe there’s even love there, too, but this is Alex. I won’t expect miracles.
And I hope to hell he doesn’t have to kill someone every time he says it. Valentine’s would get awkward every year.
He cracks the main door and peers out. The noise of people comes through clearly, this part of Brooklyn a mingling of food joints and artists’ shops.
“Okay, we’re good.” He tucks the gun back into the waistband of his pants, checking his suit jacket covers it. “Let’s go. Crowds mean safety.”
I’m not sure how true that is if Van Wyk is here and sees us, but I’m desperate to put this place behind me.
Alex opens the door. His arm slides around my waist, which I’m grateful for, and we walk into the street. There are fewer people around than I expected, just groups here and there. We’re farther away from the trendy areas, down a side street. Alex sets a pace I can’t keep up with, and I stumble.
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he says, his arm tightening. “Take your time.”
I’ve been running on adrenaline ever since Alex arrived, and it’s abandoned me now. My body’s failing, muscles trembling, nausea returning. I don’t worry about throwing up—there’s nothing left—but passing out? That’s another question altogether.
Each pace takes effort. My chafed ankles are sore in my boots, and I cling to the stinging pain. It helps, fighting the throb in my head.
“How far?” I grunt.
“A block. I didn’t want to risk parking too close.”
I can manage a block.
It’s still the longest damn walk I’ve ever had, and when we finally reach Alex’s car, I collapse against the side of it. He takes my weight, opens the passenger door, and helps me in.
The seat is the most comfortable I’ve been in my life.
Alex strides around the front of the car, and I watch him move in admiration. He’s like a panther… a predator of some sort anyway… graceful, controlled, like he could snap and kill at a moment’s notice.
That is not a comforting thought.
Except it is. He has snapped. He has killed. But he’s done it for me.
And I’m in his car, safe. We can go home, and be safe.
Except they know where he lives. Maybe get a hotel and be safer.
He climbs in behind the wheel, starts the engine, and pulls out.
“Where are we going?”
“JFK.”
“Uh-huh.” Not a hotel in New York, then. “And after that…?”
His eyes flick to me. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“My clothes… my things…”
“In the trunk.”
And that’s it. There’s nothing else to stay for. Carol’s dead, I have no work to do, no people to say goodbye to.
That’s my life, right there. Gone. Empty.
All I have left is Alex, and a brother I barely see.
“All right.” I slump back into my chair and close my eyes. “Do what you think’s best.”
If he replies, I don’t hear it, my body shutting down. I welcome the oblivion of unconsciousness.