Chapter 14 Kaye
KAYE
Open your eyes, Kaye…
TWO MONTHS AGO
The doorbell chimes behind me as I walk into the chilly night air.
I didn’t mean to stay late at my favorite coffee shop, Jack’s Magic Beans, but I had just signed the lease on my apartment and a little celebration was in order.
My late-night commutes are about to get a lot easier, and to top it off, crime in the city had been quiet lately. Things are looking up.
I should have known something wasn’t right.
I board the bus, pop in my earbuds, and close my eyes for one second. The rumble of the engine hums underneath me, and even with the odd bump it’s so soothing. I open my eyes and nothing looks familiar outside the dark glass.
“Excuse me?” I call to the woman across the aisle. She looks up from her knitting project, her eyes red-rimmed, but filled with kindness. “Did we pass Ashberry?”
“That was about five stops back, honey.”
Shit.
I get off at the next stop and immediately regret it. Broken buildings line the streets as far as I can see. This part of town was full of empty places and shadows long before the factories closed their doors. It has only gotten worse in the time since.
Not the kind of place you want to be at this time of night.
A whistle sounded in the doorway on my right, the man within slumped on the ground. “Smile for me, pretty girl.”
Great. Waiting for the bus isn’t an option. I skirt around the man and quickly but purposefully begin the long walk home.
Twenty minutes later, I’m cold, tired and still nowhere closer to meeting up with my line. Sweat coats my brow and cools as a gust of wind cuts right through my clothes. My chest aches, heaving under the murky film of city smog.
And then I see it.
A Nissan GT-R. Black, with windows tinted almost as dark. No license plate, and immaculate paint polished to a mirror’s sheen. I run a finger down its curved surface, convinced it wasn’t real, then use the hem of my T-shirt to brush away the mark my finger left behind.
The building connected to the fenced parking lot it’s parked in is rough.
It spans almost a whole block in length.
Two stories rise above the main floor area, maybe more.
There are at least four in the office space to the right side of the structure.
Its surface sports a painted blue aluminum skin.
Any windows not spray painted or ringed in shattered glass are covered in old boards, and garbage litters the perimeter.
What is Charade doing here?
Ducking into an empty glass factory about a block away I change into my gear, lovingly hidden in a pocket I stitched into the lining of my backpack. The mask glides over my face, and I relish the feel of its silken weight against my cheekbones.
A quiet settles over the night as I backtrack to the abandoned factory.
My nerves alight. It’s more than a lack of noise; it’s the lack of life.
The roar of traffic that fills downtown is no more than a distant murmur.
Even the air feels stagnant despite the tunnels created by the huddled factories.
My knees shake as I mount a shoulder-length ledge and take the impact of falling onto a threadbare carpet within.
The lemony-citrus zing of industrial cleaner fills my nostrils until it’s all I smell.
The outlines of large, industrial desks are imprinted into the thick layer of dust coating everything.
Bits of carpet are brighter where missing pieces of furniture once stood, where the dirt and debris hadn’t had a chance to stain the fibers.
My eyes adjust as I roam the halls. My prey will be wherever the light is. Slowly, I pick my way to one end of the hall and start my journey down the dark stairwell at its end and into the heart of the production space.
A flood of light leaks through the double doors at the bottom. They remind me of the kind my old elementary school had, with blonde wood and a clear glass windows lined in some type of metallic grid. They squeak as I press against them.
Rows of fluorescents shine from the tall ceiling. Stacks of wooden pallets taller than I am form walls that spread out in every direction. A faint pine scent and the lingering traces of old gasoline drift in the air.
OSHA would have had a field day with this place.
I navigate the floor at a snail’s pace. Every step could signal my arrival, and around every corner, my enemy might be waiting. My stomach knots as I roam with no end in sight.
I stumble slightly as the pallets fall away, and suddenly he’s there.
Dropped to the floor, I hold my breath and scoot away from the opening. Peering through the slats, I watch Charade rifle through a box at his feet.
The fumes are stronger here. Pungent. They lace every breath until I’m full of it. Until my head throbs in the frontal cortex of my skull and my eyes water.
I take my eyes off him for one second to rub away the ache building behind my brow. One second, but when I look back, he’s gone.
A warm, electric knowing raises the fine hairs at the back of my neck a moment before his fingers curl around my wrist and shove. I fall with the momentum, use it to roll into an inelegant crouch a few feet away.
Looking up at him is like looking at an element. He’s pure electricity, unpredictable and raw, with a mouth that smirks like the Devil’s lips. A shadow of scruff lines his jaw, a day or two past its prime, but he still looks good. He always looks good, much to my chagrin.
...Kaye, please...
“Rough night, Charade?” I sound bolder than I feel. That’s a relief.
“Have you been following me? Or did someone send you?”
My eyelashes brush the edges of my mask as I bat them. “Maybe I’m just lucky.”
Something in him changes. His shoulders slacken, falling just a bit in on himself.
“We don’t have to do this.” His voice is still smooth as silk, but soft. Exhausted. “We don’t have to be this. No one would ever know if you walked out of here. Just this one time.”
My heart sinks. This isn’t the Charade I know, and that scares me more than I would ever want to admit.
I look at this man who is fierce and determined, misguided but always resolute and I see something I’ve never seen before.
Something that makes me want to break at his side, if only to see where our edges match.
“What is all this, Charade?” I gesture.
“Is that a no?”
“I can’t just let you go.” I let my own weariness filter into my voice. Allow myself to be vulnerable.
Charade lunges, his expression a vicious snarl. My body moves in a fluid dance of evasion on its own accord, and that probably saves my life. He attempts to corner me with the pallet walls, but I fake a turn and pivot back to his treasure, placing my hand on top of the first page.
“One more step and it goes up in smoke,” I promise.
“You don’t even know what it is.” But he maintains his distance.
Names and addresses fill every corner of the pages until no blank space is left untouched. With the size of the stack, there has to be information on every person in New Malcolm, including me.
“It’s not what you think,” he says.
“You don’t know what I think,” I bite out. All these names—these people. They’re in danger.
I never wanted to hurt you…
I need you to remember…
Energy gathers in my palms, siphoned directly from my body’s reserve. It’s a risk, but there isn’t another source I can get to. My hand is a lit match primed to consume those names.
“No!” The breath knocks out of my lungs as his shoulder collides with my sternum mid-tackle. I grab him, finding purchase on one shoulder.
His suit is silky over the rigid tension of his muscles. It moves around him like cloth, but also like something alive. It hugs him, but still gives him freedom of movement. Like an extension of him.
He rolls off me as I sputter, doubled over, knocking the pages from my grip and quickly smothering the flames with his boot. Smoke clouds through the air. My lungs ache. They’re bruised not broken, but every breath sends a sharp stab that ends with a gulp of ash.
Charade holds the smoking, blackened lump in one hand.
“Once. Just once, Checkmate.” He shakes his head, voice thick and stilted.
He looms over me like a cobra, poised to strike. I slide away, but my back hits a wall of pallets and there’s nowhere else to go. Trapped. My eyes close as another cough rips through me and I wait.
The fabric of his suit makes a shushing noise as he moves.
I grit my teeth against the shock of adrenaline pulsing along the frantic heartbeats flowing life through my veins.
My nose fills with a new kind of sweetness, almost a relief after this never-ending pine.
Sandalwood. Musk. Vanilla. And something masculine that I can’t pin down.
Focus.
His fingers are warm as they curl around my chin. Long. Musician’s fingers. Lithe, made for fine movement.
For killing.
I wasn’t going to look, to give him the satisfaction of seeing how terrified I am, but I can’t stop myself.
His face is inches from mine. His mask fills my sight with stark whiteness.
It looks soft, almost as if it’s made of suede and yet, somehow more organic.
His lips are full, sensuous, even as they turn down in the corners.
They’re the only part of his face I can see, but it’s all he needs.
He scowls. I’ve never been close enough to see the details.
Fine lines. The pale, faded scar to the right of his Cupid’s Bow. Did I gave that to him?
Others, but not that one.
“It would be so easy to do something I’d regret. To be the thing you claim I am.” His lips curve and flow as they form the words. He leans in, his breath fanning across my lips. The nose of his mask nuzzles my cheek, and though I hate to admit it, desire filters into the fear tightening my core.
“The next time you stand in my way, there won’t be enough tiny pieces of you left to fill an envelope. Do we have an understanding, Checkmate? I will shatter you.”