Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A heavy silence surrounds me, yanking me violently upright, my heart throbbing in my ears.
My hands fly to my chest, catching the sheets that are too soft, too warm and stuck to my sweaty skin.
My back goes rigid as I look down. Peeling the material off of me, I rub it between my fingers, brows pulling together.
Not mine.
A weight settles in my stomach when my eyes cautiously scan my surroundings–the gray wall that isn’t mine, the dresser that’s also not mine. Black velvet curtains. Definitely not mine. And the bed–the ridiculously oversized, swallow-you-whole bed–also not mine.
My heart thunders harder, anxiety crawling up my throat. I try to drag in a breath before I completely lose my mind and squeeze my eyes shut.
“Trust me.”
Karson’s voice slices through the fog, and the memory crashes into me like a tidal wave. His hand around my throat, the balcony, the drop, and his storm-cloud-gray gaze.
My eyes snap open. My breathing frays as my hands ball into tight fists. My nails bite into my palms, the sting helping ground me. Keeping them clenched, my pulse begins to slow allowing my brain the chance to get with the program.
Pushing the covers off me, the first thing I notice is my bare legs. My eyes travel up the length of them, stopping at the hem of a long, black shirt.
Also not. Fucking. Mine.
Swinging my legs over the side of the mattress, my bare toes touch the plush carpet.
He’d never let me fall.
Everything comes back at warp speed. That damned realization, the frigid temperature of the shower, and the shirt that was left on the bed for me. Me slipping on the shirt and sliding into the sheets on auto-pilot, and staring at a wall until my eyelids felt like cinder blocks.
I can’t believe I actually stayed here. Under the same roof with the man who literally dangled my life in the air.
He’d never let me fall.
Irritated, I huff as I rise from the bed and reach for my phone on the nightstand, only to find it not there.
Confused, I look around the room and see my purse sitting on the dresser.
Rushing over, I dig through it, sighing in relief when I pluck the device out.
My relief quickly washed away when I notice the battery is dead–killing any hopes I had of calling someone to get me out of here.
That explains the silence.
How the hell did I manage to pass out without music?
Ever since I was little, I haven't been able to sleep without noise.
First it was the television, then it was music that lulled me to sleep.
Without it, all I heard were memories of shouting and breaking furniture.
Before my fucked up mind gets the chance to hold me hostage, I shake my head and keep moving.
I need to get my clothes and get the hell out of here.
Walking into the bathroom, I notice they’re not on the floor. They’re not on the counter either, or anywhere in the bedroom when I go back to check.
Did he take my clothes?
Stifling the frustrated scream that bubbles in my chest, I look toward the curtained window.
Sunlight peeks through the top, but barely.
It’s just starting to come up and if I want to get out of here, I have to be quiet.
Back at the dresser, I shove my phone back in the bag and slowly pull out my car keys.
I don’t care that all I’m wearing is his t-shirt, I’m leaving.
The patrons in the casino can kiss my ass if they have anything to say about it.
Fisting the keys tightly in my hand so they don’t jingle, I sling my purse over my shoulder and take slow steps to the door.
The perk of being a “ghost” most of my life? I’ve mastered moving around undetected. Tiptoeing down the hall, I pause to scan the open living space and out the balcony doors. Not seeing him anywhere, I know that now is my chance.
Quickening my steps, I silently rush through the living room and toward the exit. The door opens as I reach for the handle, dread washing over me as a pair of gray eyes and a sideways smirk stop me in my tracks.
“Going somewhere, doll?”
Her skin pales as her crystal blues widen. I push into the entryway, and she instinctively steps back. My grin grows as I shut the door behind me.
Smart dolly.
My eyes trail from her shocked face down the length of her.
She looks absolutely stunning in nothing but my shirt.
It’s definitely too big for her, hanging off one freckled shoulder.
Her nipples poke through the fabric that stops just above her knees and I push down a groan.
She shuffles from one foot to the other, unsure if she should stay right where she is or run.
She’s always running, and she’s fast. But I’m faster.
“You were going to leave in nothing but my shirt?” I lift a brow, pocketing my cell phone.
I didn't sleep last night. Most of it I sat on pins and needles like a damn guard dog waiting for her to run. Twenty minutes ago, I exited the penthouse to pace up and down the hallway, to try and get rid of some of the excess energy I’ve been feeling to hopefully ground myself.
News flash: I failed.
What she doesn't know is there are cameras all over the apartment. So when she got out of bed, I got a notification. I watched as she tried to make her grand escape, and cut her off when freedom was at her fingertips.
“Give me my clothes, Karson. I’m leaving.” My head tilts, studying her.
“You walk through the casino dressed like that, I’ll have to pluck the eyes out of every man you pass. Not something I care to do before I’ve had breakfast, but I will.”
Her lips part and I shrug. “Not a threat doll, just math.”
She stares at me in disbelief as I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator.
“Karson.” She sighs.
“I’ll give them back to you when they’re clean.”
“You washed them? When did you even take them?”
“While you were sleeping,” I answer flatly.
Her face twists with anger.
So dramatic.
“Cole dropped your bag off after Rapture closed. When I put it on the dresser for you, you were already passed out. So I gathered your clothes to wash them.” If looks could kill, I’d be dead right now. Her lips set in a hard line, and she tightens her fists.
“I knocked,” I shrug. “You didn't answer. I helped myself.”
I close the refrigerator with eggs in hand, and her head snaps toward me.
“Sit. Your clothes will be done drying soon. Then you can run,” I tell her, already moving—pulling bread from the counter, milk from the fridge, a bowl from the cabinet. I don’t look at her while I crack the eggs, splash some milk, and add a dash of cinnamon. Domestic. Normal.
Like I didn’t have her dangling over concrete eight hours ago.
Like I don’t still taste her fear on the tip of my tongue.
Dramatic? I don’t think so. Ashlynn doesn't respond to soft and sweet. If she needs me to be the villain, done.
She holds out for a minute, stubborn little thing.
Weighing her options, she finally caves, dropping her bag in the middle of the floor before storming over to the couch.
The cushions swallow her as she flops down with a dramatic huff.
My eyes roll. At first, her hatred for me was real.
Instinctive. No effort required. Now she has to remember to hate me—brick by brick, rebuilding that pretty little wall she’s meticulously built around her before it ever has the chance to crack.
The punch? Real.
The balcony tantrum before I held her life in my greedy hands? Not real.
We’re getting somewhere.
Looking up from my current task of good little house bitch, I see she’s laid out across the couch with a throw blanket across her legs. She stares out the balcony window, and I chuckle.
“Comfortable, princess?”
Her head snaps toward me. “Don’t call me that.”
I dip a slice of bread into the egg mixture and let it soak. “Okay, we’ll stick with terror.” Her face reddens.
“I hate you.”
“Yeap,” I grin, coating the griddle pan with a slice of butter. “You keep saying that but, I think you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.” She clenches her jaw.
Fuck. She’s pretty when she’s pissed.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Her voice laces with irritation.
“Breakfast?” I question, pointing at the pan. “I make a killer french toast, terror.”
She sits up, crossing her arms over my shirt–my shirt–and I have to force myself to refocus on the sizzling butter instead of the way the fabric tugs across her chest.
“You know what I mean.”
I lift my eyes to her, slow and deliberate. “Watching you stomp around my apartment like an angry little demon?” My head tilts. “Yeah, doll. I’m having an excellent morning.”
“If I could find my shoes, I’d throw one at you.”
“If you could find your shoes you’d be halfway across the parking garage,” I fire back. “Which is exactly why you can’t.” I drop the bread onto the heated pan, and dip a new slice in the eggs.
“You’re unbelievable,” she mutters.
“That’s what I’m told.”
I finish cooking in silence and place her plate on the island across from me.
She says nothing as she walks over to sit at one of the stools.
The smell of cinnamon wafts through the air, and she inhales it deeply.
Handing her a fork and bottle of syrup, she wastes no time digging in.
I lean against the counter behind me, balancing my plate on one hand, fork in the other.
We eat in silence for a moment before I decide to see if she knows anything about her missing coworker. The guys haven’t come up with anything yet, and it’s a race against the clock. Every minute she’s gone, is another minute she’s closer to being lost forever.
“There’s a girl who works on the second floor of Rapture. Long, black hair. Probably about your height. She’s a bartender. Do you know anything about her?”Her hand freezes halfway to her mouth.
“Why?” she grits, but it’s weak.
I don't want to tell her the real reason I’m asking, or what I saw happen on those cameras. Not yet anyway. She deserves the truth but if I tell her anything now, she’ll raise hell at the club and it could compromise us ever finding the girl, or who took her.
I shrug but before I can answer, my phone goes off in my pocket. Pulling it out, Maverick’s name lights up the screen with an incoming call. I leave the kitchen and step out onto the balcony before I answer. From the inside of the apartment, I hear the dryer signal that it's done.
Looks like our breakfast is over.
After a quick two minute call, I slide open the balcony door to see Ashlynn’s plate still on the counter, and her bag missing from the floor.
Shaking my head, I search the apartment and piece together that she found the laundry room.
Her shoes are gone, the dryer’s empty and my shirt lays on top of the washing machine.
I laugh to myself, then get ready to head down to the Pit.
I knew as soon as I had my back turned, she’d take off. And that’s okay. She can’t run forever.