The One Who Won’t Get Away

Chapter 1

Nadya

Two Years Ago

I PICKED THE BAR FOR its modern vibe. The last thing I needed was one of those dingy places where the clientele was over sixty or someone looking to sell their bodies to those over sixty.

Not that I had a problem with sex workers, but I didn’t want to be mistaken for one and having to deal with some sleazebag who thought flashing me a twenty-dollar bill meant he could grope me.

Also, it was close enough to a subway station for the Q train that could get me home. Driving... yeah, even if I didn’t plan on drinking, driving just wasn’t in the cards for me. It’s why I liked Brooklyn so much — I never had to drive if I didn’t want to.

Today was one of those Saturday nights with the weather in denial, half winter, half spring, all slush.

Weather like today always made me want to forget myself in alcohol, sex, and occasionally, when my thoughts decided to really go spinning, drugs.

Alcohol first, though. Because I was good like that, caring about my health and what not.

I shook off my coat at the door and bee-lined for a seat in the center of the bar where I could easily see and be seen. It shouldn’t be hard to find someone to hook up with. Harder to find a guy good enough to make me forget.

Forget my adoptive father putting me in the car, saying we were going on a field trip. Just the two of us. Wouldn’t that be fun?

It wasn’t. It absolutely fucking wasn’t.

A guy two stools away looked like he could do the trick. All those muscles, those huge hands... then again, just because someone looked good didn’t mean they knew what to do with a woman. Too often, men like that only cared about their own pleasure. That was the last thing I wanted tonight.

I dug the leather jacket, though. Bad boy vibes were definitely my thing.

The bartender with a man-bun and a tattoo sleeve tried for a smile. “What can I get you?”

“Vodka. Neat.”

He moved off to pour it, and I glanced sideways again. The stranger had a face you could call handsome if you liked your men permanently tired. And yeah, maybe I kinda did like that. He looked like I felt.

It wasn’t an exhaustion after a long day of work but rather that bone-deep weariness I’ve been carrying ever since I was a kid. And all of that because of one incident. Because someone was walking in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The hunk didn’t speak until my glass hit the bar.

“Saturdays are the worst,” he grumbled.

“If you don’t like Saturdays, try yoga. It’ll either help you relax, or it’ll make you so miserable you’ll think Saturdays are the best.”

He huffed a low laugh. “Already tried yoga. The quiet doesn’t help.”

Huh. I could definitely relate to that.

“Then you must be loving this,” I said, waving a hand at groups of people chatting at all the various tables.

The place looked half-empty by Brooklyn standards, but the chatter was deafening because Brooklyn standards? Yeah. Tables were practically on top of one another to get maximum income from the extremely expensive rent.

The hunk looked me up and down, but it didn’t make me feel slimy, so that was a good start. Raising his glass in my direction, he gave me a slow nod. “Nick.”

“I think you got the wrong person. My name is Nadya, not Nick.”

He smirked, then in the most seductive voice repeated, “Nadya.” Did it have to sound so hot when he said it? “You Russian?”

“No.” I was. Russian born in Ukraine.

He didn’t press. “You come here often?”

I let that one hang for a second, then laughed. “Jesus. Are we actually doing this? The standard line part? Tell me you have something better.”

Was I being an ass? A little. It just...

well... I had to see how he’d react to a slight pushback.

A very slight one because I wasn’t about to piss off someone I didn’t know.

Men who didn’t react well to these things would be an automatic no, regardless of the hot looks.

It didn’t even matter that I only wanted someone for tonight.

Temper of any kind was unacceptable and the inability to take no for an answer even more so. Call it a test.

“Not really. The classics are classics for a reason.” He turned to me fully then, propping his elbow on the scarred wood.

His eyes were dark, not quite black but close, and they didn’t dart away like some guys did if they were up to no good.

“Okay. How about this. You look like you could drink me under the table, and I want to find out if that’s true. ”

I considered my already empty glass. Getting drunk sounded perfect, but men tended to get worse at sex when they got wasted, and I didn’t want that. In other words, I didn’t mind being sloppy drunk during sex, but the guy better be at least half-way sober.

“You’re trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?” I asked instead.

“Depends. Do you want me to take advantage of you?”

Alright, maybe he was passing the test. Maybe. I mean, he didn’t throw a tantrum because of my slight bitchiness, and he was basically asking for consent.

I tapped my fingers on the bar and narrowed my eyes at him, pretending to think. “What if I want to take advantage of you instead?”

“All yours, baby.”

I shuddered. “No endearments, okay?”

He slid a bill across to the bartender, pretending not to look at me, but I could see him watching me from the corner of his eye, noticing how I reacted with an actual full body shudder.

“You make the rules,” he answered nonchalantly.

Good. That was good. Him noticing too much of my reaction wasn’t, though.

Looking at his posture, I wanted to say he was military, but the way he watched me made me think law enforcement. Although, his watch was too nice. Not that I had anything to hide from the police, but I didn’t want him getting too attached and using his position to track me down or something.

Whatever. I just had to make sure not to tell him too much about myself. It didn’t have to get complicated.

I followed Nick outside and shrugged my coat on. The weather was still crap, but it somehow got even worse with the annoying drizzle. Fucking weather.

“So, your rules mean you decide where to go,” Nick said, looking at me intently, his eyes telling me exactly how he wanted the night to go. “I’m from out of state, so I’m staying in a hotel a few blocks from here. Or we can just hang out.”

“Hotel sounds perfect.” Him being from out of state sounded even better. I wouldn’t have to worry about him getting too attached. “But if you’re angling for a murder-suicide, I have to warn you: I’m a light sleeper.”

“That’s too bad.” He chuckled, then offered me his elbow and as soon as I took it, he started walking toward his hotel.

Not too rushed, but he was definitely a man on a mission and that mission’s objective was in my pants.

“I promise, I’m not a serial killer. Although, you should probably text someone my ID to be on a safe side. ”

There were only two people in my life who cared enough to report me missing. One of them would have nightmares if I texted her with anything remotely like “in case I get murdered,” and the other one would read me a lecture about my life choices.

“I’ll take my chances,” I answered.

Would running into a serial killer really be so bad?

Oh, hell, I couldn’t go down that path, not even in my thoughts. If I got killed, it would absolutely destroy my sisters, and I wouldn’t do that to them. They deserved better after everything they’d been through.

I focused on the cold air biting through my jacket. Even that was better than thinking of murders and what not. That’s what I got for only having one shot. It clearly wasn’t enough to numb me.

As we got to the hotel, I wondered if the watch was a gift because the angry carpet and dying potted plants didn’t exactly scream money.

Then again, maybe he wasn’t the one who had booked it.

New York was a prime location for conferences people were forced to attend, and their employers would book the accommodations.

It was either that or he stole the watch from someone.

So many possibilities and definitely not enough alcohol in my system.

The elevator ride was silent, the tension growing more taut with every floor. In the room, he stepped aside to let me enter first. I put my bag down, tossed my coat on a chair, and turned to face him.

Nick didn’t pounce. He took off his jacket, hung it neatly, and set his phone face-down on the nightstand. When he looked at me, there was something in his eyes—determined but not desperate.

Good. Still good. Maybe the lack of alcohol in my system wouldn’t matter if he proved to be as considerate as he was so far. Maybe he could make me forget.