Текст книги "Last Breath"
Автор книги: Jessica Clare
Соавторы: Jen Frederick
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
Seven
Regan
I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT the breakfast he’s left for me. I can’t possibly eat, not when he says he’s going to take me back to the consulate. That can’t happen, and I need to act.
My mind is whirling a million miles a minute as Daniel relaxes on the couch and pulls the blanket over himself. He looks exhausted, and part of me feels a little bad that he’s clearly been run ragged looking for me. The panicky part of me doesn’t care though, and it’s screaming in the back of my mind. It wants me to run over to him, shake him awake, and force him to protect me from the world.
Sad how quickly Daniel has become the only safe thing in my life. Pretty sure there’s something fucked up about that.
The clothes he’s picked out are garish, in bright, touristy grandma-ish patterns that I would have laughed at back before all of this. Now, I touch the soft fabric of a cotton sundress and appreciate that it’ll cover all of my body. There are bras and panties here, too, and some boho-looking leather sandals. They don’t match the clothing, so it’s clear he was trying to find me something practical for my feet. Nice thought.
I pull out a bra and underwear, frowning at the sight of them. These are not granny-like in the slightest. These are a bit slutty. The fabric of the bra and matching panties are sheer and clearly meant for romance and not practicality. I shoot Daniel a suspicious look, but his eyes are closed and his face is relaxed as he sleeps.
Or pretends to.
I consider the lingerie. Did he buy this with an ulterior motive in mind? Or was this the only thing he could find? I don’t know the answer, but I don’t trust men anymore, so I suspect the worst. It confirms that Daniel wants me. As long as I can use it against him, I’m fine with that.
I watch his sleeping face as I slide the panties under my clothing and tug them on. They’re a little tight across the ass, but I don’t care if I have a plumber’s crack. They’re clean. That’s all that matters. I don’t leave the room to put on the bra, either; I slide my arms under my current clothing and work the clasp around my back, watching Daniel as he sleeps. I should go to the other room and change, but I don’t want to.
The thought of leaving the room kind of freaks me out. It’s like, if I leave, he’ll vanish and I’ll be alone all over again. So I stay, switching out my clothing piece by piece, pulling off tags as I do so. Daniel sleeps through all of this.
When I’m dressed, I sit down at the kitchen table and try not to panic. I’m clothed now. I’m clean and I’m clothed. I should be feeling human now, more relaxed. Instead, I’m shaking with fear, my mind whirling and chaotic. When Daniel wakes up, he’s going to take me back to the consulate. If he takes me back to the consulate, Mr. Freeze is going to find me and I’m going to end up right back where I started. If I tell Daniel, though, will he care? He’s made it clear that he’s ready for me to be out of his hair, and I only made things worse by falling to pieces last night. I could kick myself for having a sniveling sob-fest last night because I think it scared him.
Think, Regan, think.
I drum my fingers on the table, and my gaze rests on his lightweight blazer on a hook by the table. I bite my lip, look over at Daniel, and when I see he’s still sleeping, I get up and approach his jacket. I search his pockets, curious to see what I’ll find. Condoms? Bullets? Knives?
I find a wad of Brazilian dollars, a vial of some sort of white powder that looks kind of dangerous, and a cheap flip phone. A burner. All righty, that’s interesting. I flip it open quietly and hit the down arrow, looking for messages.
He’s got several, all from unlisted phone numbers. I read the most recent one.
Understand R. is retrieved. Need status update on Emperor.
Another from the same number sends me into a panic.
R. is not en route to US. Report back. I grow impatient.
My heart thumps erratically in my chest. Fuck fuck fuck. It’s clear that Daniel is on a retrieval mission for me. He’s supposed to be done with me, and someone’s unhappy he’s not. Damn it. I bet I’m not his only pick-up. He’s going to dump me at the consulate and be on his merry way unless I do something.
I gingerly snap the phone shut again, thinking. I don’t have a lot of options. I could take Daniel’s gun and escape on my own with the cash he has—but an American woman alone? I don’t feel safe. Plus, I can’t get very far because I don’t have a passport or ID on me. Going to the consulate would take care of that, except for obvious reasons. If Daniel is rescuing American girls from brothels and thinks nothing of shooting men and walking away, he’s got better connections than I do.
I think about the texts. And I think about Freeze. Daniel is good with a gun. I need to stay with him.
I need to.
I know what I must do. I swallow hard and close my eyes, bracing myself. You can do this, Regan. He’s another john. I’ve had plenty of those since I was captured, and most blur into a faceless blend of rapists. What’s one more meaningless fuck, right? My stomach is queasy at the thought, though. Daniel has been nothing but kind to me. It feels wrong to use him.
And yet, I know he wants me. I’ve seen the way he looks at me. It’s clear he thinks I’m pretty—and off-limits. Time to make myself no longer off-limits for him. If I’m his favorite fuck toy, he’ll keep me at his side and protect me.
I pull my new soft sundress off over my head and carefully fold it on the table. I fluff my hair and lick my lips, then pinch my cheeks to give them a bit of healthy color. I need to look sexy, needy with desire, and, above all, like I want it. Like I’ll die if I don’t get his cock in the next few minutes.
I can do this.
I give my nipples a hard little twist to make them point, even though the last thing I’m feeling right now is desire. More like dread. He’s going to know that as soon as he touches me and feels how dry I am. I think for a moment and then gather saliva in my mouth. When I have plenty, I coat my fingers and shove them into my panties to make myself wet. That’ll have to do. By the time he gets there, I’ll have him so hot and bothered that he won’t notice . . . or won’t care. Most men don’t care.
I quietly approach Daniel. He’s still sleeping, his breathing regular. His arms have fallen forward, no longer holding the blanket to his body, so I peel it back carefully, letting it pool at his feet. He’s wearing a belt and trousers. All right. I’ll have to rub him, get him good and aroused first, and then unbuckle him.
I kneel next to him and reach for his cock before hesitating. I need to make sure this goes smoothly. I stand up and tug my panties off, even though my mind screams for me to put them back on because panties are safe. Then I sit down and lightly place my hand on his chest, watching his face.
He stirs, but he doesn’t wake.
Gently, I rub my hand along his length, feeling it harden. A twinge of worry creeps over me because Daniel’s flaccid length is still pretty impressive. That’s going to hurt, but nothing to be done about it now. I cup my hand and continue to stroke it up and down his cock, as it grows and hardens under my ministrations.
He mumbles something and reaches for his cock, eyes closed—and finds my hand there. His fist closes around my wrist but he doesn’t move. His eyes snap open, and he gives me a vague, confused look. “…the fuck?” he mumbles, trying to sit up.
I lean in and press my mouth to his parted one, letting my tongue graze his lips. My hand remains on his cock and I push a hand on his shoulder, trying to force him back down on the couch. “I have a problem, Daniel,” I say in my sexiest voice as I keep rubbing his cock. I press my tits against his arm, too, and his girth swells thicker in my grip.
Suddenly the fog clears from his eyes. He jackknifes upright and tosses me aside, sending me reeling. “What the fuck are you doing?” he roars.
The realization of what I was just about to do—what I was doing—hits me. I’ve tried to use this man like everyone has used me. Like he was nothing.
Like he was just a body part.
Like I was just a body part.
I’m stricken with horror and I can’t pretend any longer. I struggle to my feet. “I’m sorry,” I manage to say at his forbidding stance, fists on hips, glaring at me like an angry god. “I think breakfast isn’t sitting well.”
I stumble away and barely make it to the bathroom before I puke everywhere.
Eight
Daniel
I DREAM OFTEN. TOO MUCH. Usually my dreams are about my sister, Naomi. I’m with her on vacation, and sometimes I save her from the kidnapping. But most of the time I’m left standing on the beach as the waves come up and take her out to sea, and I swim and I swim and call out her name but she never responds. When I try to turn toward the shore, my dad is standing there with my mother prostrate at his feet, so I turn around and dive back into the ocean. When I wake up, I’m gasping for breath.
Other times I dream of my missions when I was a sniper in Delta Force, lying in a ghillie suit in the sand with my spotter next to me. I’m shooting people regardless of their sex or age, like I’m in an arcade. I don’t know from my position who they are—and for my own sanity don’t want to know—I only know they are a danger to my brothers and I’m to kill them before they harm any members of my unit. After these dreams I wake up holding my breath, waiting to pull the trigger.
This dream is so different than all my other nighttime movies. In this dream Regan is telling me that the only way I can save her is to have sex with her. No doubt this dream is going to end as badly as all my other dreams, but I can’t figure out whether fucking her is swimming toward the shore or back into the ocean. She keeps saying that this will make it all right for her—that she’ll be healed by my dick. There’s something about it that I know is wrong, but the press of her body against mine drowns out all those concerns. It’s a pretty fucking good dream, and then…I wake up and realize it’s not a goddamn dream. That the fucked-up chick is stroking my cock, but her eyes are dead and I’m not into drilling corpses.
I stuff my stupid-ass hard cock into my pants and zip up. Even though I’m pissed as hell at her, I get her a glass of water.
Inside the bathroom I see Regan leaning over the toilet, her bare ass resting on her heels. She’s not just gagging. She’s crying and trying to retch out every ounce of her body. I kind of want to start vomiting right beside her. Half of me wants to scream at her until my throat is raw and the other half stupidly wants to pick her up and soothe her tears.
“Here’s a glass of water. We need to talk.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me. Her shoulders are heaving and every breath is labored. I place the glass on the sink, and my hand hovers over her head. Apparently the side that wants to comfort her is winning out. That’s probably my dick talking, so I clench my fingers into a fist and back out, closing the door quietly behind me.
The sounds of her sobs and dry heaves are muffled but still audible. Each reverberation of her grief is like a fucking needle into my skin. I grab my burner phone from the counter. She must have looked through it because it was in my jacket pocket. This morning I was dead tired from flying from Seattle to Russia down to Rio in three days followed by three more days of looking for Regan at Gomes’. I’ve had only a handful of hours of sleep, and this morning, after disposing of Gomes’ thug and buying Regan some clothes, I thought I could give in and rest a moment. We’d have a few hours before Gomes’ dead man would have to check in.
I’d thought that I’d have time to sleep. I needed a few hours, but apparently my body and mind had shut down so completely I couldn’t tell what was going on. But what the fuck was she trying to seduce me into doing anyway? I let anger at Regan, at the whole goddamn situation, burn away my guilt. She had no business trying to have sex with me. I’ve been nothing but good to her.
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
Climbing out onto the fire escape, I dial up Petrovich because if I don’t check in, the motherfucker will keep texting me. And that pretty much ruins the purpose of the fucking burner phone.
“I’m working, and if I have to stop every goddamn second to tell you that I’m taking a shit then you’re not going to see any results.”
“You sound angered, Daniel.” Petrovich’s nearly accentless voice tumbles down the phone lines.
“Not angered. Irritated. Do you know what that is in Russian?”
“Yes. I went to Oxford, do you not remember?”
“I could give two shits where you went to college. Just fucking stop texting me.” I wish I could pace but the fire escape is about four feet by four feet. There’s barely enough room to take one step.
“I should come,” he muses.
“Sure, come on down. This place definitely needs more Russians. You aren’t going to look out of place at all,” I say.
Petrovich grunts. “The Emperor. Remember, he must be captured but not harmed. You must do everything possible to keep him out of harm’s way.”
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh and lean against the iron railing. My previous anger is draining away. Regan’s fucked up. Of course she’s going to do stupid shit. I just need more patience. It’s what I would want for my sister. “Who is this Emperor person anyway?”
There’s a pause as if he’s trying to weigh whether I’m worthy of the information, but I know far more about Vasily than makes him comfortable. I know enough to blackmail him. Why he wants the Emperor is no big deal when it comes to the fact that he had his uncle, the former head of the Bratva, murdered.
“You know of the Emperor’s Palace?”
“Yeah, it’s the place where I get most of my commissions.” And the light dawns. “You want the person who created this underground network. Not for the money. You don’t need it.”
He’s silent, unwilling to give me more information, but it is all so clear to me now.
“You must want to hack into something that is unhackable, and you think the Emperor can do it,” I guess, but I know I’m right.
“Yes,” he snarls, confirming it all. “The person who can create a network that facilitates the trade of guns, drugs, everything and not get caught? I want him.”
“My sister could do it,” I told him. “Not that I’d let you get your dirty hands on her.”
“Find me the Emperor. It’s what I’ve paid you for.” He hangs up, and I let the empty static buzz in my ear for a minute. Find the Emperor. Find my sister. Well, to do all that I needed to shed some baggage. Regan needed to get going before the two of us did each other in. I key in another number to help that process along.
“Da.” Nick’s harsh Ukranian accent is a welcome relief from the soft romantic tones of the Portuguese language. I can’t handle soft right now.
“Your girl is a basket case,” I tell him.
“Regan does not belong to me. She is not mine. I have only one.”
Nick is so goddamned literal. Usually it makes me laugh but not now. “Put Daisy on the phone.”
“Nyet.”
“Yes, put your goddamned girlfriend on the phone or I’m walking away from Regan right now.”
There’s a shuffling in the background and a grunt from Nick. “Hello?” Daisy sounds breathless but happy. A little of my anger leaks away. I can’t ruin her happiness. Daisy’s been through too much, and I know she’s crushed with guilt. If it weren’t for Daisy, Regan would never have been kidnapped. If Daisy hadn’t been a virgin, Regan wouldn’t have been raped. I can’t tell her what is going on here.
“Daisy, sweetheart, that dour Ukrainian keeping you happy? You know I’m more than willing to come to your rescue?” I try to inject some false cheeriness into my voice.
She giggles. “Nah, I love my dour Ukrainian. You’re too laid back for me. I like them morose and uptight.”
Boy, she has Nick pegged perfectly. “You’ve never had a Texan. Once you have a taste of big sky country, you can’t go back.”
“I thought big sky country referred to Montana.”
“We’re so awesome that all the best slogans are used to describe us. Montana’s a copycat and they know it. Plus, their motto is used to describe why they get away with copulating with cattle. No one around to see.”
“That’s really gross, Daniel.”
“I know. It’s why I don’t visit there.” The small talk is actually wearing on me, so I get down to business. “It’s good news. I’ve got Regan.”
When Daisy begins to cry, I want to crush the phone in my fingers. I’ve had it up to here with the tears. I can’t take one more woman sobbing, even if she is happy. But Daisy’s tears aren’t cries of relief. I can hear the guilt and sorrow and pain in them. “Did you hear me? We’re safe,” I bark into the receiver with more force than I intend.
“Do not raise your voice to her or it will be the last thing you say,” I hear Nick threaten.
“Yeah, yeah.” At this point, I’d welcome being put out of my misery. I stick my head back into the bedroom, but I don’t hear any sounds from Regan. Hesitantly I climb through the window and into the apartment again. It sounds like dead silence. Shit, did she hurt herself? “Gotta run,” I say and throw down the phone. In less than five seconds I’m at the bathroom door, but it’s open and the bathroom is empty. A light cough sounds behind me and I spin around, gun in hand. It’s Regan, sitting on the corner of the sofa, her hands upraised. I flick the safety on and stick the gun back into my tactical vest.
“You look like shit,” I say because I’m at a complete loss for words. My throat aches from holding back all the shouting I want to do. Before she can respond, the phone rings. Nick and Daisy. “Get another bottle of water and drink it all down. But slowly. You’re going to be seriously dehydrated.”
Her eyes dart toward the bedroom where my phone is ringing. Ignoring the incessant rings, I stomp over to the refrigerator and pull out another bottle of water. Patience, I counsel myself. This girl has been through hell and she needs some patience. Treat her as you would your sister.
With another deep breath, I gather my tattered self-control and give her a gritty, barely there smile and hand her the bottle. The phone has stopped ringing, but then it starts again.
“You better get that.” Her voice sounds like someone has scratched it with sandpaper. It’s rough and gravelly and sexy as fuck.
“Yeah.” I make no move to answer the phone though. After two rings, the voicemail kicks in and a beep lets me know I have a waiting message.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” she whispers, and then she looks down at her hands that are busy peeling the label off the bottle.
My first instinct is to say it’s no big deal, but it’s a big fucking huge deal so I’m not going to try to sweep it under the sofa like it’s nothing. “I’ve got to make a phone call, but then you and I are going to talk. You’re going to tell my why Gomes keeps coming after you. You’re going to tell me why you won’t let me take you to the embassy. Then we’re going to talk about this morning.”
She nods again and takes a sip of water, looking at me with wet, huge eyes over the plastic container. Looking as if I’m going to drop her off on the side of the road. Rubbing my forehead, I try to find some patience.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Regan. And I don’t want you to use me to hurt you.” I stroke a finger alongside of the back of her hand, and when she doesn’t flinch I squeeze it. “I’m on your side, no matter what. But I can’t fucking help you if you don’t allow me to know what’s going on. I spent weeks looking for you, and I’m telling you right now that I’d rather be dead than allow anything bad to happen to you. So plan on talking when this is all over.”
This causes her to give another little watery gasp, so I back off. I can’t handle another crying bout this morning. My nerves are shot, and I’m sitting on the knife’s edge of insanity with no sleep, a shit ton of guilt, and the worry of Gomes’ men coming and tracking us down. I wasn’t lying when I told Regan that I’d die before I let harm come to her again. I don’t want to hear those broken sounds from her. Not ever again.
Inside the bedroom, I pick up the phone and see that Nick’s called me three more times. I step out onto the fire escape again and pull down the window. This is not a conversation Regan needs to hear. Not yet.
“Is Regan okay?” Daisy answers before the first ring completes its cycle.
“She looks okay. I haven’t taken her to a doctor or anything.” I figured someone at the embassy would take care of that.
“She can go to one when she’s back in Minneapolis,” Daisy muses. “Why isn’t she at the embassy? I thought the plan was to get her and then take her to the U.S. Consulate.”
“Thanks, Daniel, for saving my best friend when you had nothing to do with her kidnapping,” I say a bit sarcastically. When my harsh words are met with silence, I feel like a dick. “Look, sorry. It’s been a tough few days. I took her to the embassy, but she wouldn’t get out of the taxi. Rather than go through a big production by carrying her nearly bare-assed through the front doors, I brought her home with me.”
“How will you get her home, then?”
“I’m taking her over today, but here’s the deal: She’s scared of me and she doesn’t trust me, so how much do you want me to tell her?”
“Everything.”
“Everything? That Nick’s a former Russian hit man and that she was kidnapped because they didn’t know which girl he was boning?”
“Yes, all of that,” Daisy says flatly. “Or I’ll tell her. Put her on the phone.”
“Fine.”
I climb back in and hand the phone over to Regan. “It’s for you.”
She looks at me like there’s snake that will crawl through the earpiece and bite her, but after a moment she reaches out and takes the phone from me.
“Hello?” she asks tentatively.
