Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Marlon drove like the wind. His car skidded on patches of ice as he tore out of town and back to the strip mall that had given him such a bad feeling all those weeks ago.
“You’re sure?” Elton said over the car’s Bluetooth system. “You recognized him?”
“The leather jacket. The Neanderthal forehead. It’s the guy from the car when we first came to install the security system.” He pulled into the parking lot and hesitated, choosing to drive around the back of the strip mall instead of the front. He needed to figure out how many people were in the building before he went in with guns blazing. Not that he had any guns. “I know it’s him.”
He hoped so, at least. If his mind was playing tricks on him, and the face he’d seen in the recording of Camilla’s security system wasn’t the man who’d scowled at him from the passenger seat of the car, he had no idea where Camilla might be. No idea why she’d left her phone on her desk. No idea why she hadn’t even grabbed her jacket on the way out.
He’d blown through the bakery earlier, looking for clues. All he had was a hunch, a wild chance.
Ice encased his chest, and Marlon’s extremities felt cold. He had to find her. Had to bring her home. Had to make sure she was okay.
Who was that man who’d knocked on her bakery door? What hadn’t Camilla told Marlon what was going on? Why hadn’t she trusted him?
He turned the corner and saw the back of the long strip mall—and paused.
A pair of legs flailed out of a high window. One shoe was on the ground, buried in fresh snow, while the other waved around as the feet kicked.
Marlon knew those legs. He loved those legs.
“Got her,” he barked, and stepped on the gas.
“You got her?” Elton asked, voice harsh. “She’s there?”
Marlon didn’t have time to explain. He pulled up outside the window and got out, keeping the engine running. “Camilla!”
She screeched and flailed harder.
“Camilla, it’s me,” he said, not sure if she could hear.
The legs paused, suspended in the air above him. Her knees came toward the wall, toes scrabbling for purchase on the bricks.
“Sweetheart, I’m going to get you out,” he said, gentling.
The window was high, but her dangling legs were at shoulder level. He approached, talking all the while. “I’m going to pull you out,” he said. “I’m so mad at you right now, but I’m going to get you out of here and you’re going to tell me what’s going on. Okay, sweetheart? I love you so much, but I’m going to kill you once I get you home and make sure you’re okay.”
He was talking nonsense, but he couldn’t help the relief that swept through him.
But when he put his hands on her ankles, intending to pull her out, it quickly became evident that Camilla hadn’t heard a word he said. Maybe she hadn’t even known he was there —because the moment his hands touched her ankles, Camilla kicked.
Hard.
Pain exploded over Marlon’s face as her heel connected with the bridge of his nose. He yelped, stumbling back, and blood began to pour out of his nose and into his mouth. The legs kicked and flailed like the tentacles of an evil octopus, jabbing at the air, trying to attack.
Gathering himself, Marlon snarled—and lunged.
He ignored the agony that spread over his face as he clenched his jaw. Ignored the tears streaming down his eyes and the blood gushing out of his nose. He jumped and grabbed Camilla by the ankles and yanked.
She didn’t budge, fighting him with renewed intensity. Her legs bent and bucked against his hold, but he tightened his grip, braced one foot on the wall, and pulled again. And again. And again.
The pressure released all at once. Camilla came falling out of the window with a frantic shriek, and they both tumbled to the ground in a heap.
Marlon, dazed, tried to cling onto her, either to stop her from attacking him again or to check she was okay. He wasn’t sure which. But Camilla sprang up from his body, her hands batting and scratching at him.
“Get off get off get—” The pelting hits stopped. “ Marlon ?”
“Hey!” A dark-haired head poked out of the window. “I knew that period cup stuff was bullshit! There’s no way that’s real! Get back here! Frankie!”
“Oh, crap,” Camilla said, falling to her knees. She put her hands on Marlon’s cheeks, on his chest. “Oh no! Are you alive? Are you okay? Oh no, oh, no, oh no?—”
“We need to get out of here,” Marlon rasped, sitting up. His head swam. He tasted blood.
Camilla moaned, sounding half-relieved, half-horrified. “Oh my God. What—how—why didn’t you say —oh!”
Marlon stood, stumbling slightly, then turned to help Camilla up. But she was already on her feet, pawing at him, guiding him to the car.
“I’ll drive,” she said. “Your face . I’m so sorry, Marlon. What are you doing here? How did you find me? Never mind. Get in the car.”
“I think you broke my nose.”
Camilla moaned in distress.
“Stop!” a voice called out from the end of the strip mall. Three figures came around the corner, sprinting, their leather jackets flapping in the wind.
Camilla yelped, shoving Marlon toward the car. He tripped, landed in a heap, and accidentally hit his nose on his hand, and pain momentarily blinded him. But when he blinked, he saw the men gaining, and he knew Camilla wouldn’t make it to the driver’s side of the car in time.
He jumped to his feet with a snarl, rushing to get in front of her. His arm caught Camilla around the waist as he tucked her behind him, keeping a hand on her thigh to make sure she stayed put.
The three men stopped in front of them, breathing heavily. One of them carried a baseball bat. The man in the middle curled his lips, and Marlon recognized him as Frankie Smith. Vermin.
“Give her back,” he said.
“Not a chance.” Marlon set his jaw.
He must’ve looked like a victim in a horror movie, with his nose smashed and blood dripping down his chin. Adrenaline dumped in his blood as he held Camilla safe behind him, puffed his chest out, and bared his teeth. Maybe he looked like the villain. He hoped he looked like the villain.
“Ms. Fox owes us a large sum of money,” Smith said, his tone aiming for reasonableness and landing somewhere in the realm of very, very threatening.
“That’s a lie!” Camilla cried. “I paid you everything, Frankie, and you know it. I don’t owe you a cent. If you have a problem with my father, you take it up with him!”
A debt? Marlon tilted his head. “Your father?”
Frankie bared his teeth. “You know what, Fox, I think I will. I think I’ll call him right now and tell him what his daughter’s been up to this past decade. How do you think he’d react, knowing you took money from me to start your precious business? You think he’ll still invite you to Christmas dinner?”
Camilla’s breath came in pants, her hand tightening on Marlon’s bicep. He kept one eye on the men and watched her in his peripheral vision, pride burning in his chest as her spine straightened.
“Go right ahead,” she told Frankie. “In fact, give me the phone. I’ll call him myself.”
“You think he’ll want anything to do with you once he knows?” Frankie goaded. “You think you’ll be able to walk around like Dean Fox’s favorite daughter after he disowns you?”
Camilla trembled, but her expression changed. Her eyes softened, and a small, peaceful smile tugged at her lips. When she spoke, her voice was calm. “I was never his favorite,” she said. “And I’m tired of fighting for a title that’ll never be mine. You can drag my name through the mud and try to make my family hate me. I don’t need them to feel good about myself and my life anymore.”
Confusion flitted over his face. He clutched his phone in his hand, watching Camilla. The man with the bat glanced between Frankie, Marlon, and Camilla like he had no idea what was going on.
“You’re a little bitch,” Frankie said, lips curling in a snarl.
Marlon bristled. “What did you call her?”
Smith narrowed his eyes. “I can ruin you, boy.”
Marlon heard himself laugh, an ugly sound. “I think you’ll find it’s the other way around,” he said darkly. “Did you forget the six months of complimentary coverage we offer to all new clients at Elite Security? I wonder what we’d find on our tapes if we went back and reviewed them. Would we find you guilty of false imprisonment? Extortion? What else would we discover, Frankie?”
Smith's eyes flared. “I’m going to kill you.”
Marlon wondered if he was signing his own death warrant—or Camilla’s. But he stood tall and shrugged. If Camilla could face this guy, so could he. This is what he did. He protected the people he cared about. Cherished them. Made sure they were okay.
He only had one card to play: “Maybe. But killing me won’t erase any recordings from our systems, and my team knows where I am right now. They know who you are. They have the recordings.”
Smith's whole face went red. He ground his teeth, huffing like a bull about to charge.
“You don’t ever come near me or mine again,” Marlon said levelly, “including Camilla. And no one ever sees anything my company recorded on your premises.”
“Erase the files.”
“No can do.” Marlon smiled through the blood on his face. His arm still held Camilla back, and he drew strength from the warmth of her body pressed against his. This was where he was meant to be. He couldn’t believe he’d almost thrown it away.
Frankie stared at him for a long moment, then let out a scoff. “Whatever. Why would I want a fucking bakery anyway? Get out of my sight. Both of you.”
Camilla hurried to the driver’s side as Marlon shielded her, then he circled back around to the passenger seat. Three sets of eyes watched them, menacing, until Camilla pulled away from the strip mall and drove around to the exit. It wasn’t until she had turned onto the freeway that she let out a long breath.
“Start talking, sweetheart,” Marlon grated. “From the beginning.”
She threw him a glance, then returned her gaze to the road. Snow blew across the dark asphalt in white gusts, swirling like tiny, formless tornadoes. “We’re going to the hospital, Marlon. You should see your face.”
“I don’t care about my face,” he grated. “I want to know why I found you stuck in a window trying to escape that asshole’s office building.”
“I’ll tell you,” she replied primly, “once a doctor takes a look at your nose.”
Marlon was about to object, but he caught the edge of worry in her gaze. He noticed the trembling in her muscles and the way she clenched the steering wheel like she was afraid to let go. Her neck was stark, her shoulders tense. There was blood all over her shirt, and he wasn’t sure whose it was. He suspected it was his own.
He reached over and put a hand on her thigh and felt it soften under his touch. She was safe, at least. She was beside him.
Sighing, he leaned back in the seat and let her drive them both to the hospital.