Gypsy Brothers: The Complete Series (29 page)

He’s still staring at me intensely. What is he thinking? That if he blinks, I might disappear?

And maybe I will. Maybe I’ll melt straight onto the floor and slide down the drain, gone entirely. Like a ghost.

The vision in my head is unsettling, so I try to bat it away. Which maybe isn’t the best idea, because as soon as I get rid of that thought, I’m reminded of the last time I showered in this bathroom—fresh out of the emergency room after my own poisoned coke almost killed me.

As if the thought of blowing Dornan in here isn’t bad enough, now I’m reminded of something just as bad. This bathroom is full of way too many bad memories.

Jesus.
I can’t even process what Jase must think of me.

It suddenly occurs to me that the boy with the sad eyes standing with me, supporting me in the shower as I step listlessly from foot to foot, is still fully dressed as he stands under the water with me.

“Your clothes are all wet,” I croak, or at least it sounds like a faint croak, because I can hardly hear.

Jase smiles sadly, looking down at his saturated black shirt and heavy jeans that must weigh a ton with all the water. “I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea,” he says, and I nod blankly.

The wrong idea? My heart breaks as I realize he’s talking about sex. He didn’t get undressed because he didn’t want me to worry that he wanted sex. Of course, that never even entered my mind. But I think of the last time he saw me, the last time he
really
saw me before I died, and I have to wonder how many times he’s played that horrid afternoon through his mind over the past six years.

Of course he’d be afraid to touch me. Of course.

My eyes sting, and I remember I’ve still got these stupid blue contact lenses stuck to my eyeballs, probably coated in dust and debris. I’m lucky I don’t have chunks of shrapnel lodged in my eyes. I rinse my fingers under the water and slide a finger over each eye, pinching the thin blue plastic discs away, and flicking them down the drain. He knows who I am, after all. There’s no point hiding it.

He’s been watching me intently, and once I’ve tossed the contact lenses on the floor, he places a gentle hand on my chin.

“Look at me,” he says quietly, and I do. I gaze up at him, my eyes watering, wondering what he sees. What he feels. The moment feels surreal. The steam from the shower, the stark white of the tiles. It makes me think momentarily that I
must
be a dead girl.

“There you are,” he says. “Are you really here? Are you real?”

“I think so,” I rasp, closing my fingers around his tattooed bicep.

“Your face,” he says. “What happened to it?”

It’s so different I can’t even begin to explain.

“It’s gone,” I reply thickly. “It was the only way I could fool him.”

He studies my face, running his fingertips along my altered cheekbones, my thinner nose, my untouched lips, before coming back to my eyes, the same as they ever were.

“Juliette,” he whispers.

The way he says my name, it hurts. An avalanche of sadness and relief bursts forth from me, and I sob brokenly. He pulls me closer to him, and we stand there in the shower, a tableau of sorrow and regret, as the water washes pieces of plaster and dust from our skin.

If only washing away our sins was so easy.

THREE

The shower comes to an end all too quickly with a burst of cold water, reminding us that the hot water has run out. Slowly, moving like we are wading through quicksand, we towel ourselves off and leave the bathroom. Jase peels a layer of wet clothing off and replaces it with dry versions of the same, then brings me a pair of gray sweat pants and a dark blue T-shirt. He leaves the room and I unstick my wet underwear from my chest and hips, changing into the fresh clothes.

It’s a starkly contrasted mood to the last time I was here, only a few days ago, when he thought I was either an undercover cop or at least screwing one.
Elliot
. I need to contact him. He’ll be sick out of his mind with worry.

I’m worrying, too. Is Elliot safe? Jase said he was looking into him. He knew Elliot used to be a cop. He knew more about Elliot than about me just a few days ago.

Until that phone call, he had no idea. I wonder who he was speaking to in the parking lot when he figured me out. Wonder what they said to him.

What was the giveaway? How was I exposed? Questions I need to ask Jase, but not yet.

I’m still deathly afraid of the answers.

Tentatively, I leave the safety and dim light of his bedroom for the living room, and beyond that, the kitchen. I smell rich tomato sauce and follow my nose, my stomach suddenly screaming for food.
Elliot
. Right. I scan the living room, spotting my handbag on the end arm of the sofa.

I move hesitantly, sticking to the walls and the edges of rooms. I’m no longer the one with any power, and the feeling of being so vulnerable and exposed sits uneasily on my skin. I still have that response inside me that says
flee
, and I quash it down uneasily as though it’s bile rushing up my throat.

I search through the bag hastily. No phone.
Damn
. Maybe Jase took it. Maybe it’s in the car. I’ve memorized Elliot’s cell number, so I’ve just got to find a landline in this place and get word to him that I’m safe.

“Looking for this?”

I whirl around to see Jase standing in the kitchen doorway, holding my cell phone in one hand and its battery in the other. Great.

“I just killed it,” he says, studying the battery. “Is that going to be a problem?”

I know what he’s asking me. He’s asking me if anyone would be tracking me with the GPS.

I shake my head. Elliot never said anything about tracking my phone. Still, an uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. He gave me the phone in the first place. For all I know, he’s had a tail on me since the moment he handed over the bright pink iPhone at the warehouse.

“Good,” Jase replies, pocketing the two items and disappearing back into the kitchen.

He’s pulling a plate of lasagna out of the microwave as I tiptoe into the kitchen, my eyes looking downward. He points to the small round table that sits between the breakfast bar and the doors that lead to the balcony.

“Sit.”

His tone is gentle but firm, and I take the seat he’s pulled out for me, scooting closer to the table as he lays the plate in front of me.

He sits across from me, watching expectantly.

“Eat first,” he says, pointing at the plate. “Talk later.”

He waits patiently as I dip my fork tentatively into the sheets of meat-filled pasta and cheese, tasting the first food I’ve eaten in God knows how long. Suddenly I’m shoveling it in as fast as I can, trying to maintain some appearance of decorum but failing miserably. When the plate is clean I let my fork fall on the bare porcelain with a clatter.

Jase is looking at me again with that kind of look that says
I don’t know what to do with you
.

“Let’s go out to the balcony,” I say, the first real sentence I’ve uttered since he crash-tackled me in the parking lot a few hours ago.

He shrugs, gesturing for me to lead the way. I push my chair back with a squeak and stand, making my way over to the door. I am exhausted, and it takes several goes before I successfully pull the door open.

“You should really lock your doors,” I say softly. “You never know who you’ll find in here.”

He follows me outside and sits across from me, the only noise the rush of the waves crashing below us.

He looks determined as he holds my gaze with those eyes that destroy me every time I see them.

“Start from the beginning,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

It’s not a question. It’s an order.

The fear of him knowing my deepest, darkest sins is outweighed only by the relief I crave: the relief that we will no longer have a wall of secrets and lies separating us.

For once, I don’t hesitate.

I tell him everything.

FOUR

I tell him everything that’s happened, from the moment Elliot stole me away from the hospital where Gypsy Brothers were converging to kill me, right up until the moment the bombs went off. I leave out the finer details about Dornan and Elliot, because I can’t bear to upset Jase any more than I already have. Besides, he knows. He’s seen. Willfully having a sexual relationship with Dornan was always going to be the death of any hope between Jase and me.

As I speak, my voice is steady. I don’t cry. I sum everything up very matter-of-factly, as if I’m speaking about somebody else entirely. A stranger.

That poor girl
.

When I’m finished, I clear my throat and stand. “I need to call Elliot,” I say to him. “He’ll be going out of his mind with worry.”

Jase’s hand shoots out, surprising me as he clamps his fingers around my arm and drags me back down.

“No,” he says. “We’re not finished yet.”

I sit and stare at the floor. “We’ll never be finished,” I whisper. “Not until he’s dead.”

He scoots his chair closer, his hand clamping around the back of my neck as I watch him try to fight the dueling emotions of rage and affection written clearly over his face. At first the gesture seems almost violent, possessive, but his hand is warm and loose. I lean into his touch, a small reprieve against the fall breeze that chills me as it blows straight in from the ocean.

“You remember last time we were here? Six years ago?”

I nod, enjoying the feeling of his fingers as they rub up and down my neck. A flash of the past comes to me then—Jase and I sitting inside on the couch, holding sweat-slicked hands tightly together as my father and Jase’s surrogate stepmother laid out a plan of escape from the Gypsy Brothers and every awful thing they stood for.

“They didn’t get out,” Jase says solemnly. I let out a quick breath, almost like a sigh but with more force, more emotion.

“I know,” I reply, my eyes suddenly swimming again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You probably hoped they got away the same way you did.”

I shrug. “I guess a little part of me always hoped. But I know inside.
They didn’t make it
.” That last sentence a whisper that I can’t even hear.

“Were you there when he died?” I ask.

Jase’s face fills with sorrow. He lets go of my neck and takes my hand, squeezing it.

“Yes.”

I swallow thickly, closing my eyes as relived horrors dance across my darkened eyelids.

“Did he suffer?”

Another squeeze. He pauses a fraction too long. “No.”

“You’re not a very good liar,” I say brokenly, opening my eyes to look at him.

He sags visibly in his chair, eyes to the floor, shoulders hunched.

“No,” he says sadly, “I’m not.”

***

Knocking. Distant and low at first, but quickly ratchets up, until it sounds like someone is pounding on the front door to Jase’s apartment.

Our eyes meet; Jase’s expression mirrors the panic I’m feeling in my chest.

“Did you tell anyone you were here?”

I shake my head, and then I remember the guy at the hospital. “Do you think someone saw you shoot Jimmy?”

Jase’s face blanches, before returning back to the cold, angry exterior I’m so used to. “I doubt it. I’m meant to be at the clubhouse, though, so there’s
that.
”

I bite my lip, looking toward the door as the knocking stops, just as suddenly as it began.

“Wait here,” Jase says, withdrawing a gun from his waistband and cocking it. I raise my eyebrows as if to say
I’m not waiting here
, but he waves a hand at me in frustration.

“I mean it!” he hisses. “If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, do you at least have a gun for me to protect myself?”

He glances at me, seemingly unsure. “How do I know you won’t shoot me?”

I almost fall off my chair. “It’s ME. If I wanted to shoot you, you’d be fucking dead right now.”

He sighs. “Yeah, good point. There’s a piece under the middle couch cushion. Get it and then stay out here, you hear?”

I almost say
yes, Dad
, but that’s kind of not cool given our current situation with me screwing his father and all. Instead, I just nod, following him into the house. He goes for the front door while I veer off into the living room, dropping to my knees in front of the couch. I grab the lip of the middle couch cushion, lifting it slightly as I stuff my other hand in. After a few sweeps, my fingers brush against something cold and metallic. I carefully feel for the grip and press my palm around it, careful it isn’t aimed my way. When I pull it out I see it’s a snub-nosed revolver, safety on. I unclick the safety mechanism and open the chamber, relieved to see each space stuffed full with shiny brass-colored bullets. With a flick of my wrist the chamber closes again, engaging against itself so that it’s literally ready to go whenever I pull the trigger.

Although, I hope it won’t come to that. Because if there are Gypsy Brothers at the front door who want us, six bullets aren’t going to get me very far.

I creep back to the balcony as instructed, keeping my ear out for Jase. It’s hard—my hearing is still terrible, with the ringing in my ears still shrill and constant. I half close the sliding door so that I’m alone on the balcony, with nothing but a gun in my hand and a table at my back. I glance uneasily at the balcony edge. It comes up to my navel, but I’m betting if someone shot me in the top half of my body, I’d be thrown straight off onto the asphalt below. It isn’t a settling thought. I opt to crouch.

I’m listening intently for anything coming from the front door … so intently, that I don’t realize someone is descending upon me, literally from above.

A guy dressed entirely in black and sporting a black ski mask over his face flashes before my eyes, landing next to me on the balcony.
What the fuck?
He goes for the gun in my hands and I panic, screaming as I take aim.

“Don’t shoot!” he hisses, a voice I’d know anywhere. I lower the gun as he peels the ski mask off, his hair wild and his eyes alight with excitement and worry.

“I almost fucking killed you!” I whisper-scream at Elliot, my arms flying as I scold him like a child. I look closer, seeing he’s attached to a thick black ski rope that’s dangling down from the apartment above.

“You abseiled in here?” I ask, impressed.

He unclips himself from the line and surges forward. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

I take a moment to think about that. “Who?” I ask dumbly. “Dornan?”

“Jase,” he hisses, looking toward the door. It’s partially obscured by the hallway, and I wonder if Jase can hear us right now.

“No,” I say emphatically, shaking my head. “He figured it out, El. He knows who I am.”

“You didn’t take him out,” Elliot says, glancing between the line of sight to the front door and me.

I shake my head. “I was never going to.”

He looks disgusted. “He’s going to be the death of you, you know that, right?”

I shrug. “He’s not like them, Elliot.” As I’m speaking, a thought suddenly occurs to me. “How’d you know I was here, anyway?”

He doesn’t answer, but there’s a telling look on his face. My stomach does a flip as a fresh suspicion wedges itself uncomfortably in my mind.

“That phone,” I whisper conspiratorially. “You’ve been tracking me?”

He doesn’t say anything, but his face belies the truth.
He has
. I don’t know if I feel angry or relieved.

Inside the apartment, there’s a flash of dark clothing, and the front door slams shut.

Elliot jumps into motion, replacing his mask and withdrawing a large pistol from his belt. He takes my elbow and pulls me along, opening the sliding door as quietly as possible. Like he’s trained for this his entire life, he enters the house without a sound, his boots soft on the tiled floor as he tucks me behind him with one arm, his own gun in front of him.

Jase must be in the living room, and I desperately hope that he isn’t with any Gypsy Brothers. Elliot is going to be hard enough to explain to Jase. The front door is closed, but around the corner I can see the living room window is wide open, sending the curtains billowing into the room like crazy, dancing ghosts.

And then, Jase is in front of us, his own gun outstretched. It’s probably a really stupid thing to do, but I act on impulse, jumping between the two of them as some sort of human shield or negotiator.

“Don’t shoot!” I scream at both of them, jumping in front of Elliot, who looks more like Batman right now.

Jase looks pissed. “Get out of the way, Julz,” he says through gritted teeth.

“He’s a friend,” I say desperately, glancing over my shoulder at Elliot. “Elliot, take your fucking mask off so he can see your face.”