Chapter 15
When I regain consciousness, I’m somewhere dark. I’m shaking, but I’m not sure it's from the cold or the blood loss. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and my voice croaks.
“Where am I?”
It's Gray’s voice that breaks the silence and darkness, though I can’t see him. “A safehouse outside the city.”
“How’d I get here?”
“When you didn’t show up at the rendezvous spot, I went looking for you. Found you passed out and bleeding.”
“You didn’t call backup? Why’d you break protocol?”
“I knew you were close.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I was supposed to let you die?”
Suddenly, I realize how much of an ass I am. “Shit. Sorry, Gray. I should be thanking you, not grilling you.”
He chuckles. “I’m used to it by now, though I don’t know how Dec lived with it for so long.” His voice is teasing.
“I’d punch you if I could see anything, and if my shoulder didn’t feel like it has a knife in it.”
“Rest, Nova. I’m going out to get some supplies. Our transport will be here in a few hours.”
“Why is it taking so long? We should be on a plane by now.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. “It was a bloodbath, Nova. A lot of civilian deaths. The CIA is trying to prevent a bigger political problem.”
I wake with a start. After the late-night situation with the whistleblower, I didn’t get home until 6 am Saturday and spent the rest of the day in and out of sleep. Eventually, I passed out for the night, but my sleep wasn’t good. The dream proved that.
There’s something about the timeframe from when I hit my head to when I woke up in a safe house with Gray. He went against protocol to get me out. He didn’t call for backup. But didn’t he say they were too busy handling the fallout?
I push the sweat-soaked hair out of my eyes and roll over to find that it’s still only 4 am on a Sunday.
I reach for my phone and find a handful of drunk texts from Jax and Evan.
Seems they continued partying after I left them last night.
Evan also sent some shirtless photos of Owen from magazine shoots he found online.
I roll my eyes and click out of the group text, only to find a few messages from Owen.
I open the chat and suddenly my heart rate kicks up.
“Ridiculous,” I mumble to my beating chest.
Owen: You awake?
That text was sent at 2 am.
Owen: I don’t mean to keep bugging you, but when you wake, will you text?
That was sent at 3 am.
Owen, thirty minutes later: I’m not drunk or with a naked woman, I promise.
When I attempt to reply, a text bubble pops up, and I halt. The bubble stops, too. I don’t know what to make of all this.
Me: I’m awake.
Owen: Sorry to bother you. I didn’t know who else would be up at this hour.
Me: Did you sleep at all?
Owen: No.
Me: Why?
Owen: That’s a complicated question, Miss Riley.
What does that mean? Usually, his late nights are filled with drinking and women, so why not now? And why can’t he sleep?
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I wait for him to say something else. I don’t have to wait long.
Owen: You ever feel like the clock is ticking far faster than you expected?
Oh shit.
Does he suspect me? Or does he think he’s in danger? My brain goes into overdrive.
Me: Life is short.
It’s the only response I can think of, and I find I have the urge to go to him. Every instinct in me believes he’s in danger, and I can’t shake it.
Owen: That it is, Miss Riley.
A pause before the text bubble pops back up.
Owen: Want to go for a hike? Watch the sun rise? I know a good place.
I should say no, but I can’t shake my fear. I also find I want to say yes.
Me: Sure. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.
Owen: I’ll be waiting.
I throw my phone on the bed and let my head sink into my hands. I need answers and fast, because Owen is correct: time is running out.
“Brought you a coffee,” Owen says as he opens the passenger door of his red sports car, parked on the empty street and in front of my apartment building, holding out the steaming cup.
It’s still dark outside; only a few stars blink overhead. But the lights from the city block out most of them. The usually-foggy air is clear this morning, and I suck in a deep, cleansing breath and take the warm coffee from his hand, nodding my thanks.
“Do you ever drive a different car?” I ask when he comes around the other side and settles against the heated leather seats.
He puts his blinker on and pulls away from the curb. “This is my only car, Miss Riley. So, no.”
“Why?” I’ve never met anyone with his kind of money who wasn’t drowning in fancy cars.
“Why would I need more than one car?” he says as though it’s obvious.
He’s right, of course, but that information still surprises me.
“Why don’t you sleep, Miss Riley?” he asks, surprising me with that particular question, even though I’d asked him the same one not thirty minutes ago.
“It’s complicated, Mr. Mills.”
He laughs at me, throwing his own words back in his face.
“I’ve had nightmares since I witnessed my father's murder.” I don’t know why I say it. I don’t typically offer that information to anyone, let alone an assignment of mine. But for some reason, that information feels safe in his hands. Which is what scares me the most.
Owen’s laughter instantly dies, and he narrows his gaze on the road. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you saw it.”
“I couldn’t save him,” I whisper back, the tears I rarely allow to the surface threatening to spill.
He reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing it. He doesn’t let go, and I don’t pull away. His rough calluses scrape along the softer skin of my palm, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
After a few moments, he breaks the silence. “I don’t sleep because I’m afraid. I fill most nights with women and drinking because it makes me feel less alone. Less scared.”
“What are you afraid of?” I ask sincerely.
“Losing everything I’ve built. Losing the few people that matter to me.”
“You aren’t afraid for yourself?” I dare to ask because I want to know if he suspects he’ll be caught eventually for what he’s suspected of. A small part of me, though, needs to know for reasons I haven’t yet determined.
He doesn’t hesitate. “No. Whatever happens to me doesn’t matter as long as everything else is protected.”
Shit.
This man. This selfless, stupid man.
I squeeze his hand back. “Why would you lose everything?” I feign innocence, though I already know the answer.
He doesn’t answer my question for a long time as he swerves around tight curves, hugging the coast. The motion almost lulls me to sleep, and I finally register the months of little rest and what it’s doing to me.
I’m good at ignoring it, though, and right now I want to know his answer, so I force myself to stay awake.
“Because power and money are fleeting, Miss Riley. Neither of those lasts forever.”
It isn’t the answer I am expecting, but somehow it doesn’t surprise me.
How easily we forget that those things are fleeting.
How little the money and power mean when they can easily be taken away.
But I don’t think he means just that. I think he knows eventually he’ll be caught, and he doesn’t want every good deed he’s done to go down with him.
My heart constricts.
He pulls into an empty parking lot, everything still pitch-black outside.
In the headlights, I can make out a small swath of redwoods surrounding the area.
A small building along the edge of the trees looks to be a bathroom, and possibly a welcome center, but both are pitch-black. No lights are visible.
When he stops the car, he releases my hand, his hand flexing as he pulls it away. “Ready?”
What a loaded question. I’m not sure I’m ready for any of this. Especially not him.
I nod, and he pushes the door open, walking to the trunk of the car and pulling out a backpack and two flashlights. He turns on both and hands one to me.
“We can watch the sun rise from the sea cliffs then make our way through the old growth forest on the way back,” he explains, shutting the trunk, the noise echoing through the desolate parking lot. The distant crashing of the waves is the only other sound.
I smile. “Lead the way.”
He doesn’t turn right away and instead searches my face in the indirect glow from the flashlights. “I’m glad I hired you, Miss Riley.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, seeming afraid that I will say the opposite. Instead, he heads through the dark parking lot, aiming for a small opening between the trees marking the beginning of the trail.
I swallow thickly, and it hits me what I’m doing to him and myself.
I’ve gotten too close to my mark. I’m in too deep.
But I don’t know how to stop. I don’t even think I want to.
My instincts should be telling me to run.
They should be warning me to put space between us.
But they are oddly silent. Content almost.
I race to catch up, and we both slip through the forest in the pitch-black.
The typical San Francisco fog remains offshore, but moisture clings to the branches of the trees, raining a light mist on our heads.
The damp air, combined with the trees, creates an intoxicating smell, and I find myself taking deep breaths.
The first ones I’ve had in a long while.
The whole time, Owen doesn’t say a word but copies my breathing, and a slight grin paints his lips.
We walk in companionable silence until we reach the cliffs. Water pounds against the rock below us, much louder now. The sky is already beginning to lighten, turning it from black to a dark blue. The city twinkles in the distance, its light blotting out many of the stars above.
We sit on the tall grass and silently watch as the sky brightens further. The colors shift from blue to every pastel shade one could imagine. Time continues, neither of us speaking. As the colors fade, I finally turn my attention to Owen.
He’s staring at me.
“Do I have something on my face, Mr. Mills?” I joke.