Chapter 12
Thea
“If you’re lucky.”
What happens if I’m not lucky? Does he mean I could get captured and tortured for information I don’t have? I suppose I would prefer an assassin in that case. Or is he referring to himself as the dangerous party? What do spies do to civilians who get in the way?
I shift in the recliner. I thought I would fall asleep easily after all the trauma I’ve experienced in the last twenty-four hours.
Now that I’m still, the lack of bodily movement has given my brain permission to run wild.
I can’t stop thinking about how messed up this is.
Will I ever see my dad again? Did I do something truly terrible?
Will I remember it? Before this trip I was the definition of a ‘good girl’.
A people-pleaser, a rule-follower… That’s who I am.
Missing memories and a murder do not comfort me.
How did I lose a week of my life?
I scoot my feet as close as I can to my body, snuggling deeper into the chair. The plush cushions engulf me in a hug I so desperately need. The chair squeaks with every tiny movement I make, and Pierce grunts from the bed.
“Sorry,” I whisper into the darkness.
What if I die? What if someone comes for my dad?
At least my dad has Aunt Megan and Andi, the two people I trust most in this world.
I only have a giant, brooding man I know almost nothing about.
I dig deeper into the chair as if its fluffy arms can protect me.
What if Pierce is the one who drugged me, and he’s keeping me close to make sure I don’t remember? I promised to trust him, but trust is a process. Like climbing a ladder, I can only take one step at a time. Eventually, I’ll be at the top.
This is exactly what I tell my patients—keep holding on, keep climbing. I start humming Miley Cyrus’s The Climb on instinct.
“Stop,” Pierce groans.
“Sorry.”
He heaves his oversized body out of bed and stomps from the room. I hear him slam a few cupboards in the kitchen. What’s he looking for out there? A knife to kill me? Tape to tie me down? The light turns on, and I’m instantly blinded.
I blink to clear my vision and scream when I find Pierce’s giant form inches from my chair. “Drink this. Please.” He adds as an afterthought.
I eye the cup. “What is it?”
“Chamomile tea.”
I reach for it.
“With magnesium,” he finishes.
I debate taking the cup as the fear wells up once more. What if he’s drugging me… possibly for the second time?
I want it all to stop. I want to put an end to the worry and fear, and this feels like a kindness on his part, not something nefarious. If I don’t wake up dead, I’ll trust him implicitly. If I do… well, that’s a different problem.
I take the cup and drink it as fast as the heat will allow.
Pierce switches off the lights and I hear him lie down in bed. I finish my tea in the dark. Five minutes later, sleep claims me.
***
It’s light when I wake up. For a brief, blissful moment, I relish the hope and promise of a new day. Then reality slaps me in the face.
I haven’t peed since Pierce made me leave him a sample last night, which I don’t care to think about again. I stagger down the hall to the bathroom.
The door is locked. Or maybe I’m just tired, and it’s jammed. I shove my wild locks out of my face and try again, using my body weight this time.
The door gives, much too quickly and with a momentum I couldn’t have forced. My body falls forward into something warm and hard. Arms lock around me, holding me tight and keeping me from falling.
Pierce. His body is warm from the shower, droplets of water still clinging to his hair.
And me… clinging to his forest-green t-shirt.
I’m not sure how, since the shirt seems to be a second skin against his muscles.
I’ve never seen muscles through a shirt like this.
I thought it was a myth. Yet I hereby stand as a witness that muscles of this caliber exist.
“You are prone to trouble, aren’t you?” His words rumble from his chest to my cheek.
I peel myself off of him. “I’ve never had a problem until yesterday. Maybe this is all on you.”
His lips twitch and the corners of his eyes crinkle. It’s so close to a smile, I want to stick my fingers in the corners of his lips and finish it for him. He’d probably look at me like I was insane, which is relatively close to how he’s looking at me right now.
“Stop staring at me,” he grunts, then steps around me. Only when he’s gone can I take a full breath.
I lock myself in the bathroom, hiding my humiliation in my hands.
It works until I see my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
My hair, which was curled yesterday, now resembles limp noodles.
My unwashed face looks like a toddler did my makeup while I was sleeping.
My dress is wrinkled and hanging all wrong on my body. I squint… Is that…?
I hold up the hem of my dress to see it better.
Blood.
The dead man’s blood. Bile rises through my throat as the image of the body rears up in my mind.
I strip off the dress, tossing it in the trash. I turn the sink on, scalding my hands as if that will erase the very memory.
That blood touched my leg, which touched the blanket that I moved around my body last night, and I imagine the germs spreading over my skin like a disease. I may never be clean again. I rip off my undergarments and turn on the shower.
The warm water is heaven on my tense body.
While I scour every inch of my skin with a very strong-male scented body wash, I mentally map out my Circle of Control.
Out of my control: the memories I’ve lost and any mistakes I may have made that led to a man being killed in my room.
Things I can control: my own actions and how I respond to the challenges facing me.
This moment. This is the only one I have.
There is no conditioner. I make do with shampoo as I continue to work the stress and panic out of my body. Fear doesn’t serve me.
I stand under the water until it’s nearly cold, which feels approximately like five minutes but is probably far more. When I turn it off, I’m done—done letting my worries control me, at least for today. I’ll schedule a time to freak out later. Tomorrow, maybe. Or when I get home.
I step out of the shower and wrap myself in the only towel. I don’t know what the future will bring, but I choose to be more than my situation.
With my mini pep-talk accomplished, I reach for the edge of the towel, then freeze. I never grabbed new clothes, and my suitcase is by the front door.
I look at the trash can where my stained dress mocks me. I’d rather run through the house naked than put it back on, which is essentially the choice I’m left with. I wrap the towel a little tighter, ensuring it’s covering everything it should be.
I press my ear to the door, listening. Pierce is oddly silent for a man of his size; he could be anywhere.
He barely makes a sound when he walks. He exists in the shadows, which is a shame because the man should be front and center in a GQ magazine.
I get the sense he doesn’t want attention of any sort.
What is he really hiding from? His mom, his grandfather… what exactly?
My analysis will have to wait.
I crack open the door, waiting for Pierce to descend immediately, but all is quiet.
I step into the hall and scoot toward the living room. My hair is still damp, and droplets trickle to the ground in my wake. I pause at the edge of the hall. I don’t see or hear Pierce. This is my chance. I make a run for the front door.
My luggage comes into view, and I stifle a triumphant squeal as my fingers close around the handle. Victory! I speed back the way I came. My foot hits the water I trailed down the hall, and I slip.
Correction: I glide, like I’m on a freaking water slide, all the way down the hall. I skid to my butt, which is no longer covered by a towel.
My, these tiles are cold. I come to a stop, one hand on my luggage, the other clutching my chest while the towel rests lazily on my lower half.
“Wh—” Pierce emerges in the hall, and I scream, throwing my luggage over my chest. He slaps a hand over his face and runs… straight into the wall. He bounces backward, stumbling into the opposite wall.
I use the brief moment to slip the towel up so it’s covering everything important. I don’t think he saw anything other than an unfortunate amount of my freckly skin. I don’t wait for him to speak to the awkwardness of the situation as I take my luggage and bolt past him into the bathroom.
I spend a lengthy time ensuring I’m properly covered and hiding my embarrassment behind as much makeup as possible.
My hair has long since dried, hanging in untamable waves.
I’ve switched my earrings. I’ve even repainted my toenails.
Finally, there’s nothing left to keep me in here, and my stomach is growling.
Time to face the music, like the assertive woman I’m trying to be.
My confidence is ready to shrivel up and die when I find Pierce in the kitchen.
“Why would you do that?” He snaps the second he sees me.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Take a shower?”
“Walk through a stranger’s house in only a towel.”
He’s got a pot of coffee, and I help myself to the one other mug in his cupboard. “You didn’t kill me in my sleep last night, so I’m officially upgrading us to acquaintances.”
“Don’t do that.” His words are strained. “I’m not your friend.”
“I didn’t say that. I said acquaintance. Huge difference.” Apparently, he didn’t get his eight hours and thirty-seven minutes of rest.
“We should discuss boundaries for the remainder of our time together.”
Ooh. Interesting. The big, muscular man needs boundaries from little old me. I take a sip and cradle my mug to my chest as I search his stony expression. “Scared I’ll put the moves on you, and you won’t be able to resist my feminine wiles?”
He chokes, spitting coffee on the table, and I cover my smirk with my cup.
“Rule number two.” He scowls, wiping at the coffee stain.
I tap my chin. “Remind me what number one was.”
“You do what I say, when I say.”
“Right. You’re the boss.” I salute him. “What’s number two, Captain?”
“You must remain fully clothed at all times.”
I press my lips to the side. “It will make showering more interesting, but sure.”
His jaw clenches so hard it ticks. “I mean, in my presence.”
Irritating him has just become my new pastime and a means of distraction from my bleak situation. I plan to do it more.
“I typically do keep myself clothed in the presence of others. You just got lucky.” I take a risk and send him a saucy wink.
He rubs his temples as if he’s exhausted. “Please. Stop.”
I want to ask “or what?” just to see how far I can push him, which is weird. This isn’t me. I’m a stay-in-my-lane kind of person. I do my job, and never force people beyond where they are capable of going. Maybe I see more in him than I should.
I take a drink and let the subject drop. I’ve put him through enough this morning. “So, what now? Did you make a plan?”
“Three.” He spins his laptop toward him on the counter and opens it, frowning at the screen. “I’m not sure what we are dealing with yet. I need to meet with my informant first.”
“What about the dead guy in my room?” I ask.
“I took a picture when we were there. I have a guy trying to track down his identity for us as we speak.”
“You have a guy.” I mimic him. “That sounds ominous.”
He lifts a brow. “You think I work alone?”
I gesture to his one chair at the table. “Yeah, kind of.”
“No one comes here. No one knows where I live. And of course, none of them know my real name, but I do talk to people.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “Are these people you talk to visible to others?”
His scowl is so cold it could stop global warming. “If the therapy thing doesn’t work out, you should consider comedy.”
“What can I say? Not just anyone gets dumped right before they thought they were getting engaged and then gets drugged on their first solo trip ever. It takes a special brand.” I say it with humor, but my face must be telling a different story because his expression softens.
He pushes up from the table, taking his laptop with him. “I’ve got work to do, Freckles.”
He leaves me standing agape in the kitchen.
He saw way too much skin.