Chapter 18
Nuala
The elevator descends. Silence fills the metal box. Logan stands in front of me, blocking the doors. I stare at his back, trying to resist the urge to trace the outline of the Celtic cross inked across his skin.
“Keep your head down,” he says. His voice vibrates in the small space.
I tug the brim of the cap lower. The sunglasses slide down my nose. I push them back. The disguise makes me feel ridiculous, like a celebrity trying to avoid paparazzi, but the tension radiating off Logan kills any urge to laugh.
The doors ping open.
Logan grabs my upper arm. His fingers dig into my flesh. He propels me through the lobby.
“We’re walking?” I mutter, unable to help the thought that walking in these shoes is like walking on clouds.
“This is a mistake,” he mutters, as the lobby doors slide open and we step out into the cold winter air.
“I need things, and I’m not waiting around for a delivery,” I argue.
He grunts something unintelligible, which I take as a yes.
He steers me left, away from the main road.
The wind hits my cheeks, and I shiver under the padded coat.
Logan tucks me into his side, blocking some of the chill.
My feet bounce on the concrete. These shoes absorb every impact.
It feels like cheating. I’m used to thin soles and feeling every crack in the sidewalk.
“Where are we going?” I ask, struggling to match his long strides.
“Pharmacy. Two blocks.”
He doesn’t look at me. His eyes dart from a parked van to a pedestrian walking a dog.
A car backfires down the street. The sound cracks through the air.
Logan moves fast. He shoves me into a brick alcove and covers me with his body before I even register the noise properly.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I press my spine against the rough brick.
Logan scans the area, hand at his back under his jacket.
“Just a backfire,” I mutter, thinking this is more like the movies than he thinks. At least to me. I fight the urge to laugh because I don’t think it will go down too well.
His gaze sweeps the street one last time before dropping to my face. The look he gives me strips away any amusement.
“To you, it’s a noise,” he grits out, his face inches from mine. “To me, it’s a potential threat.”
He grabs my hand again. His grip is tighter than before. Painful almost. I don’t complain. The reality of his world crashes against my naive bravado. He drags me out of the alcove. We move faster now, and I struggle to keep pace with his urgency, practically jogging next to him.
The pharmacy sign is ahead. Green neon flickers against the gray evening. Logan pushes the door open and scans the interior before pulling me inside. The artificial heat hits us instantly. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making me squint behind the dark glasses.
“Get what you need,” he orders. He stands near the door, his back to the shelves, watching the street through the glass. His hand hovers near his waist.
I rush down the aisle. My hands shake as I grab a box of tampons and pads for good measure. I grab a toothbrush and paste. A roll-on deodorant. The mundane act feels surreal with a trained killer standing guard at the exit. I return to the front. I reach for my pocket to pay.
Logan is there instantly. He slaps a twenty onto the counter before I can even reach into the coat pocket for the tips I shoved in there from my apron. My mind flashes back to the crisp fifty tapping on the bar.
“Move.” He grabs the bag and doesn’t wait for change. “Nuala.”
The urgency in his voice makes me blink and come back to the present.
He shoves the plastic bag into my chest and grips my elbow. I stumble forward, my feet tangling for a second before I find my rhythm. The bell above the door jingles, a cheerful sound that mocks the frantic pace he sets.
“Walk,” he growls near my ear.
We hit the sidewalk. The wind whips my hair into my face, blinding me for a second. I claw the strands away.
Thick neck. Gray suit. Eyes on my chest. The wink.
“Slow down,” I pant. “You’re going too fast for me.”
He stops suddenly, jerking me to a halt as I keep on going. “Sorry,” he murmurs and slows his pace, but it’s no less urgent.
I focus on the rhythm of my new shoes hitting the sidewalk. Left, right, left, right. Logan scans every shadow, his head on a swivel. He keeps me tucked against his side, a solid block of heat against the winter chill.
“Almost there,” he mutters. We turn the corner. The wind hits my exposed cheeks, stinging my skin. I tuck my chin into the coat. The image of the man flashes again. Crisp fifty. Eyes on my chest.
I stop dead.
My shoes squeak against the concrete. Logan drags me a step before realizing I’ve stopped. He spins, shielding me instantly. His hand flies to the small of his back. “What? What do you see?”
“Eyes on my chest.”
“What?” He frowns. “Nuala, we need to move.”
The realization makes me gulp as I nod and we hurry forward again, entering the lobby of the apartment block and rushing toward the elevator.
Eyes on my chest, no. Eyes on my nametag, yes.