Текст книги "Last Breath"

Автор книги: Jessica Clare

Соавторы: Jen Frederick
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“Had an idea. Like I said, snitches get plugged. It’s a dangerous job.”

“I hope the information was worth her life,” I say, still appalled that the girl can be dead so quickly, so easily. Life is nothing here in the slums, and I’m reminded of how badly I want to go home.

“You have no idea,” Daniel says, and there’s a fervent note in his voice that makes me wonder. He’s practically giddy with the information that we’ve found on this new blonde, and I’m surprised at the surge of jealousy that flares inside me. Is this other woman who Daniel’s been looking for the entire time? Is that why he agreed to come find me—because he’s looking for another blonde? His girlfriend, maybe?

I’m a little ashamed at how jealous I am. Now’s not the time. It might not be the time, ever. I’m a package to Daniel. A broken, slightly torn-up package that won’t take itself back to the post office so it can be delivered.

All is quiet. No one’s shooting anymore, but we’re not moving, and at my side, Daniel is as tense and alert as ever.

“Is it safe to go?” I whisper.

“Hell no,” Daniel tells me, and a small laugh escapes his throat. “They have snipers. Someone expected her to snitch, and they’re pissed. We got a whole lot of valuable information in that phone, and when it goes up the food chain, they’re not going to be happy about it.” He still looks thrilled, though.

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“Haven’t figured that out yet.”

I think. “Can we wait them out?”

“Snipers can wait for a long fucking time,” Daniel says. “And they have all the advantage since we’re pinned down.”

“So what do we do?” I ask again.

“We wait for them to make a mistake,” he says and then glances back at me. A cocky grin flashes across his face, startling to see in such a grim situation. “And we calm the fuck down. Don’t move from here, don’t stick your head out to take a shot, and we’ll be good.”

Oh sure, easy for him to say. “You’ve been in shootouts before?”

He nods, and his attention goes back to scanning the rickety clapboard walls of the old grocery. Sunlight’s pouring in through the cracks, and it’s a beautiful day outside. Perfect day for a nice sniping, I suppose.

“Relax.” He casually sticks his gun over the fridge door, fires, and almost immediately, there’s return fire. “Yep, still out there.”

“Relax. Right.” I press my back against the wall, clutching my gun. Relax, the man says. Like people shooting guns and killing people in front of my face is nothing to worry about. But even so, I’m good at mentally “going away” in a bad situation. I’ve had lots of practice, and my thoughts turn to my favorite topic: horror movies. Guns are not uncommon, but most gunfights are one sided. Good guy shoots monster or cannibal of choice, film at eleven. Gunfights are things I associate with Westerns and action movies. “What’s your favorite movie?”

Daniel brings his gun up, and immediately another bullet zips through the weathered boards. He lowers his gun as quickly, grimacing. It’s a good thing we have the old refrigerator to protect us, or we’d be splattered on the concrete like the snitch. He glances over at me. “Are you really asking me this now?”

“Hey, you’re the one that wanted us to become besties instead of screwing.”

He snorts. “Okay. Okay.” A moment passes, and then he glances back at me. “Die Hard.”

I should have known. “Could you be more clichéd?”

“Maybe it’s clichéd because it’s fucking awesome. Seriously. The guy invented ‘yippee ki-yay, motherfucker.’ We used to yell that in the army. Not too many movie lines making it into the army. Usually the other way around.” His eyes narrow and he cocks his head, listening, then experimentally lifts his gun and shoots.

No return fire.

“It’s quiet. Is that good?” I ask.

“Means they’re on the move. Don’t worry.”

Oh sure. Don’t worry, he says. I’ll never leave you, Regan, he says. When is Daniel going to realize he’s full of shit? “Riiiight.”

“Die Hard,” he says again, pulling his shoe off his foot as I watch him. “Defeated a platoon of bad guys in his bare feet. Even in the army, they let you wear boots.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, like a mischievous boy, then tosses his shoe over the top of the refrigerator and out toward the entryway of the old grocery.

It brings on a fresh round of shooting, and bullets fly hard and heavy. I duck and cringe against Daniel, my fingers going to his waistband for comfort. It’s like if I’m holding on to him, I’m safer.

"Little more to the left, sweetheart. Though I have to say, your timing is terrible when it comes to foreplay."

Oh come on. Like I'd blow him in a gun fight. "My timing's the only thing that's saving you from getting a fist in the dick right now. Exactly what purpose did throwing your shoe serve?”

“It tells me we’ve still got shooters at the back of the building. Though I don’t think they’re sniping anymore.” He grunts. “Means they’re moving up. So what about you?”

I release his belt and fumble for my gun. “What about me?”

“What’s your favorite movie?”

Oh, are we still on that? I’d forgotten. Absently, I raise my gun and scan the room. I want to help if bad guys surge us. “The Thing, John Carpenter version, 1982.”

“That’s a weird ass favorite.”

“It’s brilliant. Or would you have rather I’d said The Princess Diaries because I’m a girl?” I want to roll my eyes at him. “You’re such a cliché, you know that? Your favorite color is camo, and you have a dozen sniper berets to match all the black turtlenecks in your closet.”

He snorts and glances over at my trembling gun. I’m aiming it at the walls, waiting for a shadow to pass through the sunbeams. "Trying to remember your shooting lessons?"

"Now's a great time, don't you think?"

"Jesus Hermione Christ. Just don't shoot me in my goddamn balls, okay? I need those for the ladies."

A dozen irritated retorts spring from my lips, but I cut them off. Instead, I raise the gun, aim it, pull the trigger, and nothing happens.

"Safety," he warns me, peering around the refrigerator.

Right. I fumble with the gun, my fingers weirdly shaky. I figure out the safety, unlock it, and raise the gun again. This time, it goes off when I pull on the trigger, and my entire hand vibrates from the recoil.

There’s no answering shot.

Daniel cocks his head and waits. He pulls off his other shoe and points at the far end of the room. “Shoot in that direction. I’m going to throw my other shoe in a moment and see if we get a response from either side.”

I look at the far end of the room. There’s a high window, and in the distance, I can see slums. What if I shoot and hit a passerby? “Can’t I shoot at the ceiling?”

“Yeah, because it looks so sturdy,” Daniel says sarcastically. “The perfect thing to end a gunfight is the ceiling collapsing on top of you.”

“All right, all right,” I mutter. When he waves a hand for me to hurry it up, I shoot at the far wall. Daniel listens and a moment later tosses his other shoe at the door.

There’s nothing but silence. It’s so quiet I can practically hear the dead girl bleeding on the ground a short distance away.

“Sounds like they’re gone,” he tells me, but he doesn’t move a muscle, so I don’t, either. We listen to the eerie silence and hear nothing. Daniel looks over at me, then nods at the open warehouse floor. "Either that, or they're trying to flank us. You stay here, and I'll check things out."

"No!"

"It's not a debate."

"I'm coming with you—"

"No, you're not," Daniel says, glaring at me. "It's not safe. Now stay here or I'm going to tear you a new fucking asshole when I get back, understand?"

I return his glare, equally furious. I watch as he slides around the side of the refrigerator and then slinks his way to the side of the building. He's entirely hidden in shadow, and if I blinked, I'd lose him entirely.

A low tremble starts through my body. I wonder if it's a trick. If he's going to turn and walk away and leave me behind for good. If he's ditching me, like everyone else has. A knot of anxiety locks my throat.

Fuck this. I'm going with him. I come out of cover and run after him.

The sigh of irritation he sends in my direction goes right over my head. I'm not being left behind ever again.

I watch him flatten his body and move along the wall, gun cocked and ready to shoot. Then, I follow his lead, moving to the other side of the door so we’re both on a side, ready to shoot if anyone shoots back.

“So what’s The Thing about?” he asks me casually. His gaze isn’t on me, though. He’s constantly scanning our surroundings, and I wonder if he’s asking me to distract me.

“It’s about Kurt Russell being a badass.” I keep my answer short. I’m nervous, and my voice sounds too loud in the silence. It’s making me anxious. “Doing what badasses do.”

“Sounds like a great plot. How did I ever miss seeing it before?” Again, Daniel’s all sarcasm and wit. It’s like the more dangerous things get, the punchier his humor gets. He ducks low, which surprises me, and quietly gestures for me to do the same.

I nod, and it occurs to me that our conversation might be a cover to distract our shooters . . . which means they’re closer than ever. Which makes me even more nervous. “It’s full of blowjobs, too.” I lie to see if he’s paying attention. “Lots and lots of blowjobs.”

“Sounds like my kind of movie now,” he says idly. Then, whip fast, he rushes out the front door and confronts the men trying to kill us.

I hear a gunshot go off, something cracks like pottery smashing, and then I see Daniel turn and fire his gun at something out of my line of vision.

Once.

Twice.

A body slumps to the ground.

It’s a blur of motion, it happens so fast. I stare at the dead man at Daniel’s feet, his neck at an odd angle. Daniel fires one more shot, puts a hand to his side, and fires one more time. There’s a thump nearby, and Daniel grunts, then holsters his gun. “We’re good. You can come out now.”

Come out? I haven’t even had time to think about firing my gun. In a daze, I get to my feet, noticing that one of the bullets struck inches above my head. If I’d been standing, I’d be dead.

“Come on,” Daniel says. “We don’t want to be here in case their buddies come back.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I rush to his side, stepping over the dead man at his feet as Daniel casually picks up one of his shoes and frowns at the bullet-hole in the toe. He shoves them on as I look around for the other dead man. There, a short distance away, with a perfect bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

Jesus. Daniel moved so fast.

He takes me by the arm since I’m not moving fast enough, and we leave the grocery behind, heading back into the slums. Daniel looks over at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I’m still dazed, at his speed more than anything. I wanted to help, and I was useless. Less than useless. For the first time, I’m starting to realize what Daniel has been saying. Not only is my life in danger when I go with him, but I’m putting him in danger, too, because he has to watch for me. It’s not a good feeling.

“You still got that grenade?” He reaches into one of the side pockets of my flak jacket and pulls it out, and my eyes widen. That explains what hurt my ribs, though I wouldn’t have belly flopped if I’d have known I was belly flopping on top of a live grenade. Maybe that was why he didn’t tell me.

“What’s it for?” I ask him and glance around. “Are there more guys?”

“Nah. We’re going to send a message to our buddies.” He pulls the pin and pitches the grenade like a baseball into one of the windows of the old grocery.

“What’s the message?” I ask as Daniel grabs my arm and we start walking away again.

Two seconds later, there’s a loud boom and debris rains down. He looks over at me, boyish with glee. “Our message is ‘Yippee ki-yay, motherfuckers.’”

“Predictable,” I tell him, but I grin until he winces and clutches his ribs again. Then I realize . . .

Daniel’s been shot.

Fifteen

Daniel

"ARE YOU HURT?" SHE ASKS.

“You offering to play nurse?” I wiggle my eyebrows lasciviously. “I love that uniform. I think it’s the white shoes.”

"Would you be serious for one minute?” She tugs at my shirt, and I turn my head to hide a wince. So I got shot; since I’m upright and able to walk, it must’ve winged me. I’ll need a little alcohol and superglue, and it’ll be fine. The most urgent thing is to get Regan to a safe house.

"Come on, let's find a nice place where you can feel me up later. When we have more privacy. I'm not into public shows.” Adrenaline’s pumping hard throughout my body. If she’d been willing, I’d have taken her on the floor of the grocery.

She rolls her eyes but follows. "I don't think you're being funny right now.”

"When do you ever think I'm being funny?” I press my hand against my waist to staunch the wound because I'm leaving a trail of blood behind me like bread crumbs. I hope this doesn’t end in us getting shoved into an oven. “I’m curious. I want to analyze my jokes so I can get more laughs per words in the future.” That sounded like something my sister would say, and I allow myself a small chuckle. Regan doesn’t realize it, but I’d have suffered a lot more wounds than a slice through my side to get that information.

My laugh pisses her off, and she snaps back. “It’s not like I have actual concern for your well-being for any reason other than you're my ticket out of here, so if you're injured I'm screwed.”

I make a tsking sound. “If I thought that were true, I’d have to lie down from the wound in my heart. Thankfully for both of us, I know you’re joking.” She hmphs which prompts a return wink. I can tell she’s developing a soft spot for me. It might not be a sexual one, but she likes me. The smirk on my face dies off when we get close to Pereya’s. Our bags are stacked outside, which means he’s had someone watch for us and is now telling us to get the hell out of here.

“What’s going on?” Regan asks as I grab both bags without stopping. The motion causes one of the bags to brush against my side, and the pain shoots outward causing me to stumble and groan. “See, you are hurt.” She tugs on my arm as if she thinks we can go back to Pereya’s safe room.

Stopping, I cup her cheek and that intimate movement stills her actions. “We’re not welcome there right now.” She makes a distressed sound. “I’m not hurt. Really. I promise if I were, I’d tell you.”

“Would you?” Her big, forest green eyes look up at me with trust and…is that longing there?

I give myself a mental head slap to dislodge a dozen unsuitable thoughts—such as her actually having feelings for me that arise out of something other than gratitude and wanting to kiss again. Hell if she needs more practice, I’m her man.

I content myself with rubbing my thumb along her dirt streaked cheek. “Nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m still breathing. Swear.”

We stare at each other for what seemed like an eternity or at least two cycles of the moon before she drops her gaze. “Okay,” she says softly.

Her soft acquiescence stirs a response in a place far above my belt line. If we weren’t running for our lives, if I didn’t have my sister to save, if everything were different, I’d sweep Regan into my arms and carry her off to the nearest horizontal surface to show her how sincere my words are. Not for the first time, I wish that I had met Regan when I was still in the army, full of cockiness and the belief nothing could ever harm those I truly loved. Those feelings are long gone, and the oppressive weight of guilt and fear that replaced them has become the new normal. My response to Regan staggers me, so to regain my equilibrium, I grab my junk and make a smart ass comment.

“There’s a part of me that is in real pain, baby doll, if you’re feeling like you need to do something.”

“Really, Daniel? Did you have to ruin it?”

Yeah, baby, I do because neither of us have time for this strange pull between us. Giving her a strained smile, I head off down the hill. Like a good soldier, she follows. For all the shit I’ve thrown her way, Regan has done what I’ve told her without question. No one stops us on our way down Monkey Hill. Maybe word has spread of our shootout or maybe we look dangerous. Dusty, dirty, and bloody, we look like two people who’ve walked out of a battle and aren’t afraid to mow down anyone who tries to stop us. At least that’s how I hope we look because the truth is that Regan and I are weak as kittens right now. We need food, shower, and sleep. In that order. At the base of the favela, I look around for some transportation because we need to put some distance between us and Monkey Hill. Ipanema, Luiz, and papers are about an hour away to the southeast. In between are more favelas, hills, and forests.

Glancing to my left I see an older model fiat and the flanelinha is nowhere to be seen. I tug on Regan’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“You’re not stealing this, are you?”

“No, I’m borrowing it.” I take my gun and smash the driver’s side window. Climbing in, I reach over and flick open the lock. “Get in.”

Shaking her head, she climbs inside. “Someone really needs this car, I bet.”

“Then they should’ve paid a flanelinha to watch it.”

“A what?”

“Car attendant. Pay someone to watch your car so that some shitty criminal doesn’t come along and steal it.”

“Nice.”

“Same thing happens in the certain parts of our great northern America. Some neighborhoods are entirely transactional.” I fiddle with a few wires, and the car coughs to life. “Plus, are you up for walking forty kilometers or would you rather eat in an hour?”

“Drive then.”

Flashing her a big grin, I floor it. Throwing her my phone, I say, “Find the shittest-rated hotel in Ipanema.”

Fifty minutes later, we are checking into Real Aorporto. Regan reads the reviews to me as I drive down the narrow, hilly streets. “Carpets are filthy. I was scared to even lie down on the sheets, so I slept in my clothes and when I woke up, I was covered in more sand than you could find on the beach.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Not that I’m complaining because I’m not funding this, but why are we looking for something so awful?”

“Because we can’t go into Copacabana Palace Hotel looking like we fought a drug gang in Monkey Hill. This place is going to be happy to accept our cash and not ask questions.”

“I DIDN’T THINK PLACES THIS shitty existed,” Regan says as we unlock our hotel room door. The hallway stinks like fish guts were spilled and never cleaned up. This room smells of stale smoke and too little air. I place our bags on the rickety desk and check out the bathroom. There are two towels that look as thin as tissue hanging on a towel bar and two extras on the bed. Flies are everywhere. “Maybe I should’ve asked you to look up the second worst hotel down here.”

“Thanks, genius.”

I throw one of the towels onto the base of the shower floor. “Stand on those while you shower. I’ll get you another dress so you can dry yourself off with it. It’s cleaner than anything here.”

Inside Regan’s bag I find a swimsuit, toiletries, and a cover-up. The attendant at the shopping center had thought of everything.

Scooping it into my arms, I carry it into the bathroom and am rewarded with a yelp. “Jesus, Daniel,” Regan harps. “A little privacy.”

“Sorry,” I mutter. Placing the clothes and toiletries on top of the toilet, I try to make it out of there without peeking. But a little scream halts my progress. Gun in hand, I whip back the shower curtain and there’s Regan huddled away from the shower head. Heart pumping, I look for the danger. Whisper-thin legs stretching out from a fat black body cling to the metal head. Shit, I don’t like spiders either. Glancing over my shoulder, I can see that Regan would be happy to have me shoot the insect with my Ruger. I shove the gun into the back of my jeans, grab a bunch of toilet paper, and remove the damn thing.

“I can’t finish my shower,” she says miserably.

“Sure you can.”

“No, because I can’t close my eyes now. I have to keep watching for spiders.”

“You can shower with your eyes open.”

“No, I can’t. I haven’t washed my hair. Will you…?” She doesn’t finish her question, but I can see it plainly in her eyes. “Please, Daniel.”

And I find myself unable to turn her down even though I know this is going to be torture for me. I pull the gun out of my pants and rest it on the edge of the sink. With my other hand, I pull my shirt over my head, but I keep my pants on. I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll not be able to keep my dick from attacking her.

“Scoot forward, baby doll.”

She does, shivering and shaking even under the hot water. “I know I’m being unreasonable, and I don’t even care.”

I squeeze some of the shampoo from Regan’s bag into my hand. “Lean your head against me,” I order. She does and I’m acutely aware that my bare chest is about two steamy inches from her naked body. And even though I’ve tried to keep my eyes off of her, truth is her figure is stamped into the fibers of my neuro system. Those images aren’t ever coming out. And now I’m adding sensation and smell to the mix. I wonder if I’ll ever fantasize about any other woman.

My fingers fork through her hair and press into her scalp. When she moans, I feel the vibration rip through my body and take hold of my cock. It springs to attention and tries to bust through my zipper to get to her. She doesn’t stop making those sounds, and it’s making me so horny I can barely stand still.

“You need to shut it, Regan,” I bark more harshly than I intend, but goddamn, a man can only take so much suffering.

“I’m sorry,” she says between moans, “but I can’t. It feels too good.”

I could ruin the moment, like I have so many before—with some stupid, sexist comment about how she could bend over and I’d give her a feel good that she’d never experienced before—but somehow I can’t. I let her lean even more heavily against me which causes my side to ache but it’s a sweet pain, one that I welcome because it means she’s touching me. “Your shampoo is done, sweetheart,” I tell her huskily. I turn her so that her pink-tipped breasts are thrust out in front of me, and it takes everything I’ve got to keep my hands in her hair and not drop them down the front of her body, following the path of the water droplets as the soap and water create erotic patterns on the surface of her skin.

She leans back, implicitly trusting that I’ll keep her upright, and I do. With one hand at the nape of her neck to keep her steady, I smooth the clean water over her hair, making sure none of it spills onto her face. Over and over, I let the water wash us—uncaring that my wet jeans feel like a thousand pounds hanging on my hard cock or that the last of the soap streaks were gone five minutes ago. Maybe we would have stayed like this for hours more had the hot water not turned cold.

“All right, baby, out with you,” I said gently. She swims to the surface of conscious thought, her eyes flicking open languorously. There is desire and need in them, and I want to pleasure her. Give me a sign, baby. But she stays silent, and finally I lift her out of the tub and wrap a towel around her and push her right out the door.

Closing the door, I strip out of my jeans and underwear and take hold of my throbbing cock. It really only wants Regan, I can tell, but my palm is the only relief it’s going to get right now. I step into the cold shower and with one hand leaning against the tile, I take my cock in the other.

It doesn’t take long. The cold water doesn’t wash away the image of her body in front of me, the look of pleasure written large across her face as she tipped it backward into the stream of water. In my fantasy she drops lower and unzips my jeans and parts the sodden fabric of the denim. Her delicate hands reach in and pull out my cock. She makes a sound of pleasure—like a hum of want—and then tells me, “You’re so big.” Her eyes are large saucers of green, and her pink plush lips open and cover me.

She never stops looking at me, never stops telegraphing how much she loves this. I can hear the sounds of her moans around my cock, muffled by the thick flesh in her mouth but still audible. My balls draw up and a familiar tension sits low on my spine. Not the first time, I think. I pull away abruptly and lift her into my arms. Pressing her against the tile, I shove into her wet heat, and she screams in my ear that she loves it so much. I imagine that her cunt is tight and wet and hot. Her walls grip me as I slide out, as if she can’t bear to lose even one inch.

Each thrust inside her body is like being hugged by a warm fist. It’s been so goddamn long, and I let out a low moan of relief. My head drops back, too heavy for my neck to support. All my energy is focused on the blood coursing through my cock as I imagine pounding into Regan over and over.

A porn reel wouldn’t sound hotter than Regan’s pants and cries. “You feel so good. You’re so big. I want you so much. Come all over me.” And so I do. I jet into her with long streams of ropey cum that seem to be endless. Only it’s my hand, and the cold water seeps into my nerves, and I finish cleaning off. As good as that felt, I know that it would be five thousand times better inside of her. But I also know that my hand is as close as I’m ever going to get to being inside Regan.

Regan

IT ISN’T FAIR.

I don’t mind that Daniel shoved me out of the bathroom. I kind of expected it, actually. I was selfish enough to ask him to help me shower, knowing it’d drive him crazy and not caring that it did. Maybe in the back of my mind, it was a test to see how far I could push him. How insane with lust I could make him before he broke his word and started grabbing me. Then, maybe, I’d understand him. My brain would go Yep, he’s like every other man, and I could tuck him away into the same mental category that all men fell into now: users.

But Daniel never breaks his word. He never touches me sexually, and by the time he boots me out of the shower, I’m confused and a little sad to leave him behind in there.

I liked being touched by him. I liked that he touched me and I didn’t have to worry. That no one was going to be forcing me to do anything, and that there was only caressing and tenderness. And god, I’ve missed tenderness so much.

I peel the towels off of my body, give my hair a quick rub to soak some of the water off, and then crawl back into bed and pull the sheets tight around my body. I should put clothes on, but I’m feeling weirdly vulnerable.

It’s like I don’t want to get dressed because part of me wants Daniel to come out of that shower and touch me. Show me what it’s like to actually have great sex. Show me everything he can do. Hell, touch me a bit more without strings attached. I’d like all of that. But I can’t ask. I’m the poster child for Stockholm syndrome, right? I should be loathing every man’s touch at the moment, instead of lusting after a man that treats me with tenderness.

I should be thinking of my boyfriend.

The thought occurs to me, and I flush with guilt, huddling a little lower under the sheets. I haven’t thought of Mike much at all, lately. Does he miss me? Mourn me like I’m dead? Shouldn’t I be dying to get back to him instead of having all these mixed-up feelings about Daniel? Mike’s a good-looking guy. We’ve been together since high school. Hell, I picked the college I went to because Mike wanted to go there.

But Mike never gives you orgasms, my traitorous brain whispers. He never kisses you like Daniel did.

Has to be Stockholm, I tell myself. I hear the water going in the other room and figure Daniel must be showering himself at this point. He won’t be out for a few minutes. I can call Mike and . . . let him know I’m alive. That’s what a good girlfriend would do.

I pick up Daniel’s phone and dial the number to Mike’s apartment. He won’t answer his cell unless he knows who the caller is, so I’ll try there first. After four rings, it goes to voicemail.

“Hi! You’ve reached Mike and Becca. Leave a message after the beep!”

I hang up, horrified but not entirely surprised. Mike and my best friend Becca? Mike and my oldest girlfriend? The one that was always telling me how lucky I am to have a guy as great as Mike?

How easy must it have been for them to get together if they’re both mourning me? All it’d take would be a bottle of wine, some mutual sad commiseration, and then naturally, of course, they fucking move in together.

I shouldn’t be hurt, but I am. Mike might have assumed I was dead . . . but it hasn’t even been two months. And he never let me move in with him, even though we’d been dating for years. I need space, babe, he’d tell me. And I went along with it because that’s what Regan Porter did. She was a nice girl that went along with things.

But Becca’s moved in with my commitment-phobe boyfriend after less than two months.

I toss the phone aside. Then I lay down, my head on the pillow, staring at the wall. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. Can I feel betrayed by people who think I’m dead? Did they even look for me?

A low groan touches my ears, and I sit up. That was Daniel. I get up from the bed, sheets wrapped around my body, and tiptoe to the door of the bathroom. The water’s still going, but I hear that low groan again.

He’s jerking off in the shower.

I’m fascinated by that, and a little jealous. Sex hasn’t been ruined for Daniel. He can still enjoy touching himself, I think enviously. I haven’t wanted to masturbate since I was taken. I used to be a champion masturbator, since sex was never really that great. I didn’t blame Mike for that, though. I sort of . . . went along with it. No orgasm? That’s okay, really. Regan Porter doesn’t mind. Regan doesn’t mind anything. She’ll finish herself off real quick while you take a nap.

Stupid Regan, I think to myself. Now it’s too late and you’re scared of everything. Scared of spiders, scared of men, scared of what happens if you let Daniel out of your sight.

I’m so tired of being scared. Of being unloved.

I suddenly feel heavy with unhappiness and return to the bed. I tuck a pillow under my head and lay down and close my eyes, curling up in the sheets. I wish the world would go away for a few days. I wish I didn’t care that Mike and Becca had paired up. I wish . . .