Chapter 16 - August
The second Kate stumbles, I know something’s wrong. She’s too sharp, defiant, too bold to stumble. Not with her hands out fumbling.
I don’t hesitate and break from my position watching the girls.
After our night together, I needed space and time apart to think.
Shame burns into me that she trusted me to enact her fantasy, and I can’t bring myself to tell the truth.
Growing feelings for her are a liability to my mission, and I can’t afford to get sloppy.
Tell that to the villain in me who enjoys crossing the line.
The prospect of him assuming control scares the shit out of me.
I turn to signal Grayson, but he’s vanished from our position, and I spot him lifting Kate’s other friend, who’s collapsed in a mass of tears.
He steadies her with gentle patience familiar with panic, guiding her away from the crowd.
Medical records flagged by him detailed her prescription medication for social anxiety disorder.
The instant I said Charlie was coming, he grabbed his coat and bolted for the bunker door, forgetting the shield he hides behind.
Katar is sucking Murder Spice’s face, breaking strict orders for surveillance only.
We’re all breaking orders. Discipline is meant to keep us sharp, but everyone has their fault lines.
I push forward, muscling through the pulsing crowd to find Kate. Nobody blinks twice at me in my full-face helmet, or Katar in his disguise. Anything goes in Antonio Morrone’s club, not just collars, as long as you’re loaded and shell out for drinks and drugs.
Darkness and my visor make it difficult to see, and I lose her in the strobing chaos. My heart jackhammers in my throat. Last I saw, someone was dragging her through the sea of sweaty bodies, and it wasn’t one of her trio.
I move faster, shoving anyone in my way, and a guy cusses me out for bumping his coke. Searching frantically, I catch her thirty feet up ahead. A guy’s got her by the waist, hauling her dead weight. She’s not leaning in, not laughing or flirting. Hell, I doubt she’s conscious. My blood goes arctic.
“Fuck.” The word rips from my chest.
I elbow past a guy and ignore the curses and flailing limbs. Kate’s vanished into the dark beyond. I make three laps around the perimeter. Nothing but spilled drinks and smeared mascara and the pounding realization that she’s gone.
I fumble for my phone and text the team.
Me: Someone’s taken the unicorn.
No response. Figures. Katar is probably tangled up in vigilante voyeurism right now. He gets off on toying with his prey. Murder Spice doesn’t look like the kind to let him get away with it. Slash first and ask questions later.
Then I spy the soon-to-be-dead asshole with Kate outside the velvet ropes of the entrance. Nightclub security is trained to pick up these kinds of things to prevent kidnappings and rapes. I’ll kill them myself. Pluto club or not, I don’t give a fuck.
I jump into a run and knock someone out of the way. Kate’s slumped, arms limp as the bastard loads her into his cheap sedan. I cross the distance of the parking lot in ten seconds flat, grab him by his shirt collar, and slam him into the side of the vehicle. His head bounces and eyes go wide.
“Where do you think you’re taking her?” I snarl.
“To… to a hospital,” he stammers. “She’s passed out.”
Awareness slams into me. He roofied her.
I slam him harder into the door and pin him to the frame. “Wallet. Now.”
He hesitates. Big mistake. “Who the fuck are you?” His chest puffs. “You can’t go through my—”
I knock the wind out of him, tempted to break him. I pat him down. Wallet in the back pocket. Mine now.
I memorize his driver’s license number and read his details aloud, voice cold and menacing. “Tom Smith. 5 Carryover Way, Shadow Lake.”
He pales. “Hey, man, that’s—”
I grab him by the throat and crush any more words. “Shut the fuck up.”
I dial Grayson, while this creep struggles against my grip.
“Yeah?” Grayson grunts like he’s rearranging his servers.
“Need a background check. Name: Tom Smith.” I reel off his address.
“I’m busy. I’ll get back to you.” He cuts me off.
Busy with Charlie, Kate’s friend. He hasn’t stopped staring at her photos since I charged him to investigate her. He better remember why we’re here. Work, not play. That’s Katar’s department, and I only allow it to control his urges.
Kate groans softly behind me, a breath caught in her throat.
“Get off me or my dad will sue you into—” I don’t let the creep get in another word.
“Daddy get you out of your last fuck-up too?” I snarl.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom chokes.
My phone lights up with a ping. Message from my nerdy sidekick. Two prior accusations of sexual assault. Teen girls. Charges dropped, Daddy’s money paying for the top lawyers.
My jaw locks. I can always pick them. My gut calls it. Badge might be gone, but cop instincts don’t fade. Predators give off a scent, and this one reeked before I even touched him. I shove this asshole into the car with enough force to make his chiropractor rich.
Katar arrives, silent as fog, with a blade already in hand.
“Look after your unicorn,” he says, his voice calmly horrifying and promising retribution that starts with a smile and ends with bleach. “I’ll take care of him.”
He licks the flat of his blade like he’s tasting dessert.
“Be my guest,” I mutter, letting Tom go and punching him in the face. His cheekbone cracks, and he drops like a worthless sack of shit.
I move to the door and bundle Kate into my arms. Her head lolls on my arms, her breath shallow, eyes closed. I lift her head and press the inside of my wrist to her forehead. Clammy and burning. Too much alcohol, not enough water, and overheating amid all the bodies.
“Don’t lose your charge,” I tell Katar as he presses his boot to Tom’s neck and chokes him unconscious.
“Kitten won’t get far.” Of course, he’s nicknamed her.
We’re all getting too attached. This wasn’t part of the plan.
Katar bends down to take his prey’s keys, then leaves him on the ground, bleeding.
He strides beside me while I carry Kate to my bike, holding the frame steady, allowing me to prop her in front of me.
Not ideal for riding, but fewer chances of her falling off.
My enforcer melts back into the night like a living shadow.
I squeeze Kate’s waist gently and take off.
Back streets only, to avoid alerting the police.
Duck as much CCTV as possible by following every detour Grayson mapped out for our evening of surveillance.
No one’s pulling me over. We reach her house without incident.
Her body flops in my arms as I transfer her to the porch, leaning her in a chair while I get the spare key from under her potted plant.
PJ3 is barking like he’s ready to tear my throat out. Where was he the other night when I snuck in her window?
“Momma’s sick,” I hiss at him, unlocking the door.
He quiets and sniffs as I cart her inside and kick the door closed with my boot. Claws click on the polished wooden floor behind me.
I get her upstairs and set her down on her bed, clothes on. One heel slips off, and I slide the other free and drop them both at her bedside. She’ll hate the mess, but she’ll live.
I peel back her comforter and lift her into place. PJ3 whines, leaps up and snuggles under the covers with her. I brush damp hair from her face.
“Watch her,” I tell him when he pokes his head out and blinks at me.
I get my phone and call the doc on our payroll.
“I’ve got an unconscious patient with suspected roofie ingestion,” I give him the details. “I don’t know how much she had.”
“No food or water,” he instructs me. “I’ll be there in thirty. Text me the address.”
Thirty minutes is too damn long. I send him the details.
When he arrives, he checks her over with detached and clinical precision. The way I’m supposed to be. Except she’s not just another casualty. She’s mine, and I’m one heartbeat away from kicking a wall in.
The words barrel through my mind before I can pull them back.
Mine? Fuck. No, she’s not. She can’t be soft and tangled in my sheets like she belongs there.
We slept together, and that doesn’t change a thing.
I lost control and that’s it. A lapse. A mistake I don’t want to admit when it was the first good thing in my life in a long time.
I’m supposed to be watching her, gathering intel, but it’s turned into protecting her… or whatever the hell this is.
“No signs of assault,” he says, finishing his examination. “She’s breathing, and her vitals seem fine, given her condition. Do you want me to take her blood and test what she’s ingested?”
“No,” I reply.
Tom’s not going to see a courtroom. Not the kind with juries, loopholes, and Daddy’s lawyers on retainer. He’s got an appointment with a higher power that doesn’t wear robes, smash gavels, or accept plea deals.
“She’ll be out for a while.” The doc packs up his stethoscope. “Twelve hours or more.”
Facts I’m well aware of, given my former occupation.
“Get her to drink as much water as she can to flush the drug from her system.” The doc gives me his final instructions. “If she gets worse, call me or take her to the hospital.”
Not happening. Hospitals ask for names, insurance, and witness reports. I’m off the grid, and she doesn’t need to be on anyone’s radar by filing paperwork, especially with Katar off the leash. Kate will stay with me, and I’ll care for her. She’ll be good in half a day or so.
“Thanks, Doc.” I see him out and lock the door.
When I come back, PJ3 is licking her face.
“Good boy.” I scratch behind his ears, and he groans. “We’re both on guard duty now.”
Pulse pounding, I sit on the bed beside them, stroking her cheek with the back of my hand. Her hair’s messy, mascara smudged by sweat and heat, and there’s a bruise on her lip, which better not be from Tom, so help me, God.
I’ve stood in worse places. Blood-soaked crime scenes. Deserted warehouses riddled with bullet holes. Courtrooms full of cowards. But this feels different.
She murmurs something, her face pinched. My nickname, I think. It’s sluggish and incoherent.
I take her hand. It’s warm and soft in mine and fits like it belongs there. My thumb grazes over the back of her hand.
“Don’t leave your drink unattended again, Glitter Bomb,” I mutter, half scold, half plea.
Her hand twitches, but she doesn’t wake.
All I can do is sit and wait, alone and with too many thoughts I won’t name taking root in my chest. I turn away before they burrow deeper.
A text comes through.
Grayson: I’ve got eyes on the friend.
Translation: he’s bunking down like a watchdog in designer slacks, shirt, and jacket. I’ll bet my Glock he’s not just playing security detail and making friends. Not with the way he stares at her in photos or videos, like she’s the only thing that makes the bunker feel less of a tomb.
The three of us were never meant to orbit this close to our targets. Yet, here we are, spinning dangerously close to their gravitational force. The longer we stay, the harder it will be to break free, until escape becomes impossible and impact inevitable.
Aside from the obvious concern, I’m just glad my old friend’s out of the bunker when he’s been welded to the cave for months.
No word from Katar. Not unusual when he’s carving confessions out of someone.
I flick him through a text.
Me: Give me an update when you can.
He doesn’t like his process to be interrupted and won’t likely answer until he’s done.
Being this close to Kate does things to me that I stuff down. I sink into the armchair in the corner of her room and play protector before I lie down next to her and never leave. This isn’t a job anymore, this is personal.
I itch to get up. Hurt something. Work off restless energy.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I whisper to her, brushing a blue curl from her temple. “PJ3, eyes on.”
He yips once like a soldier confirming an order.
Downstairs, the kitchen’s dimly lit by glaring green digits on the microwave and oven. It feels lived in and homey, unlike my loft, which has scraped together furniture, and I only go there to shape glass and sleep.
I smile at her alphabetized spice rack and mugs arranged the same way. I grab a tumbler labeled Bad Bitch Fuel and fill it with filtered water and head back upstairs.
She hasn’t moved, and neither has PJ3, whose tiny body is curled against her ribs.
I leave the water on her bedside table and glare at the lamp that PJ3 bumped to expose our operation.
I press my fingertips to her forehead. Her skin’s cooler now. That’s good. The drug’s slowly working its way out of her system.
By sunrise, I’ve poured half a tumbler of water into her mouth while I cradled her head and prevented her from choking.
I switch out the cloth on her forehead.
PJ3 hasn’t left her side, and neither have I. Leaving after our first night was rough, but a necessity to protect my identity. Doing it once she’s better will be hell.