Lie with Me (21 page)

“And the ATF wouldn’t help you?”

He shook his head.

“My God.” She put a hand on his arm and he jerked it away fast.

“Sorry. Shit.” But he still didn’t touch her again. In fact, he actually moved away, as if his pain was contagious. “It was fucked up.”

He didn’t want to go back there, even to convince Sky—but he had to. Within seconds, he was back in that small room, his hands cuffed behind him, his legs chained to the chair, waiting to see who’d requested a meeting with him.

His lawyer had given up on him a year and a half ago, claimed he’d exhausted all the possibilities. And when the tall, good-looking guy in the suit came in and told the guards they could take off the cuffs, Cam had wondered why a suit would take that kind of chance
.

“
I could take you out with one hand,” Gabriel told him when the guard left, as if he’d read Cam’s mind
.

Cam had been living in fucking hell, fighting tooth and nail for his own life, and he’d learned a hell of a lot about survival
.

He’d later realize he’d learned nothing at all, not compared to what he knew now. But, for a nineteen-year-old, he’d been pretty sure he could take the suit
.

“
I knew your father,” the man said, introducing himself as Gabriel Creighton, and Cam’s world shifted and then righted. “I promised him that I’d keep you out of trouble—and by the looks of things, I’m a little late.
”

“
Do you know where he is?
”

Gabriel shifted in his chair and then looked Cam in the eye. “He’s gone, Cameron. But I’m going to get you out of here.
”

“I’d figured my dad was a drug addict or riding his Harley cross-country. That he’d fucked me over good. I was so angry … and scared,” he admitted. “I’d done what my father asked me to and I ended up in prison. And I had no idea where he’d gone. And I’ve bounced between hating him and wondering if …”

He’d forgotten who he was speaking to for a second, and so he pulled back. “Tonight, I found out that he was killed the night of the murders.”

“And all that time, you thought he was alive, and that he sent you into that house to get you caught by the police on purpose,” she said softly. “Cam … it had to have been a mistake. My father’s a hard man, but he’d never do anything to hurt me. I can’t imagine yours would either. He probably would’ve—explained, helped you.”

“I hope so. Thing is, I don’t know if he would’ve. I don’t really know anything except I never want to go back to prison.”

He’d received a certain amount of protection in there, thanks to his association with the OA, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have to fight. There was so much confusion surrounding what happened with his dad that no one could truly say the man had been a traitor.

That was probably the only thing that saved Cam’s life.

But there were plenty of other hog gangs, dubbed
one percenters
because they were among a very small grouping considered outlaws of the motorcycle culture, who’d thought the young man was a perfect toy to play with.

And so he’d fought. Over and over. Barely slept. Watched his back. And when he’d gotten some level of respect, he still hadn’t let his guard down.

He’d never stopped feeling guarded. Maybe he never would.

“I keep thinking about you in jail,” she told him. “And I can’t see it. You were so young, a baby …”

“I wasn’t that innocent. I held my own,” he said.

“Yeah, you’re a tough one, Cam. I knew that from the second I met you.”

Her voice was soft, without a hint of sarcasm, and his arms tightened around her. “After each fight, I was put in solitary. I spent a lot of time there—just me and the four walls. And lots of time to think, when that was the last thing I wanted to do. And I sat there, most of the time wishing I was dead.”

“I guess jails and hospitals have a lot in common, then,” she said. “Except I spent most of my time praying I would live.”

C
am had never imagined that telling a woman about this would make her actually seem to like him more. To understand.

To believe him.

Shit
.

“About last night …” Sky started hesitantly, and then took a deep breath. “I think you regret what happened. And I wish you didn’t. I mean, you just met me. And I never expected …” She trailed off and motioned between them.

He wanted to tell her that it was all a result of the danger. The adrenaline rush. That it wasn’t—couldn’t be—real. “I didn’t either.”

But whatever had happened, it
was
real. And the ultimate irony couldn’t be ignored. There was an expiration date on whatever was unfolding between them. But, for now, she was his haven. “I didn’t thank you for helping me. You were a trooper. Didn’t faint at the sight of blood or anything.”

She smiled at that. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t that hard once I got the hang of it. Not that I’m looking for a repeat performance.”

“I’m not used to having someone help me. I mean, I have the team, but …” He drifted off, because damn, he’d told her more than he’d wanted to. And he continued. “Well, let’s just say I learned a long time ago to count on myself because I wasn’t sure anyone else would be around to help. And I’ve been doing that for so long, sometimes I forget it’s good to let people in.”

“I’ve been on my own for a while now too,” she said quietly. “I make my own money—don’t actually count on my father for anything. He would be there for me, I know it, but I can’t help but feel like … I need to do it on my own.”

“Why?”

“Because someday I’m going to be really alone. And I’d rather get used to it now than have it come as a shock later.”

It was like having his own thoughts repeated back to him. Her body held a fierceness, as if daring him to tell her she was wrong, and he couldn’t.

He could only tell her that in this instance, she did need help, no matter how badly she wanted to do things by herself. “Kiss me, Sky.”

She straddled him, one hand on the headboard behind him, the other winding in his hair. She blushed, but she was initiating all of it. He enjoyed watching her take control for a while, because she was so obviously enjoying herself.

“I thought you were ready to pass out,” she murmured.

“Yeah, not so much now.”

CHAPTER

11

R
iley was gone and Dylan cursed himself for thinking with his dick. She’d played him perfectly—let him play with himself until his brain was mush and then hit him with the DMH punch to the gut.

He’d struggled to the sliding glass door to look through the high-powered scope pointed at her house, but he’d known it was futile. She was long gone, and his chest tightened.

She would, no doubt, claim leaving him behind was for his own good. For hers too maybe, but the thought of her in debt to DMH made the bile rise in his throat.

She’d probably found all his bugs—in her house, her phone and her car. He’d be flying without a net going out to look for her, and still that hadn’t stopped him from getting dressed and hauling ass to his car.

It wasn’t the first time he’d followed her when she was headed for trouble. And even after she broke off contact with him after he’d saved her gorgeous ass in Russia, he hadn’t stopped.

And fuck it all, Dylan Scott did not do things like that.

Bad enough the fucking iPod thing had nearly cost him any and all street cred. Mainly because he’d had to call Zane to figure it out fast.

“
I’m too busy to screw around with iPods,” he’d ground out while Zane had laughed in the background
.

“
It’s like being back in the day, making a mix tape for the girl you liked. When I was in sixth grade,” his brother howled
.

So when he heard through a friend of an arms deal involving Riley and an ATF agent, Dylan made sure to get involved. To stop her, because the feds were on to the deal. And when he’d tailed her, found her rental space and went through the files she kept there, he had the ultimate surprise finding the intel on Gabriel Creighton.

He knew he was partially to blame for what happened in that warehouse—he’d pushed and she naturally pushed back. Hard. His side ached just thinking about it. Scar tissue that yanked at him at the most inopportune times.

There was nothing left to do but wait for her to call.

She would. Had to.

In the meantime, his other source came through, the one he’d called in a special favor from. Because until Riley had closure on what happened to her father, she would never fully heal.

It wasn’t the news he’d wanted to hear, but it was the truth.

And when he’d been driving around downtown Miami for the better part of an hour, his nerves screaming, the call finally came through—he fumbled for the speaker button and ran a red light, ignoring the steady scream of horns and screeching tires that followed him.

He could barely make out her voice, but he knew it was her.

“Riley, say that again,” he urged as she rasped out an address. He punched it into the GPS while telling her, “I’m coming for you. Try to stay awake with me, honey—I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Cameras everywhere,” she croaked as he took a turn on two wheels in order to make a green light and shave a little off the time it would take to reach her.

“Are you alone?”

“For … now.”

“How badly are you hurt?” He got silence in response. Her phone was still on, though, and he continued to talk to her in a steady and reassuring tone, knowing full well that she might be able to sense him even if she was unconscious.

The address belonged to an old commercial warehouse turned into luxury apartments. He parked his car next to hers—a Mercedes convertible that was as sleek as Riley herself—in the underground lot and headed for the elevators.

Cameras everywhere …

He forced himself to tamp down everything but his professionalism, to treat this the way he would any other mission. To make it too personal was to fuck it all up, which he’d seen happen time and time again.

As he walked to the elevator, he presented like any busy man, with his head bent toward his BlackBerry. He tried to run a quick check to confirm who lived at this address—who could possibly be the Miami link to DMH.

It was only when he got into the steel box and went to punch the numbers that he realized she hadn’t given him a destination other than the building itself.

There were only three floors—two sprawling, loftlike apartments on each.

He took a chance and went to the top floor—people always wanted the prestige and privacy of the top floor, criminals and businessmen alike.

When he stepped off the elevator to a silent hallway, he checked the intel being returned to him on his BlackBerry.

The names triggered nothing in his memory—businessmen, two legitimate, two not so legit, none of whom he could easily connect to Gabriel Creighton or DMH, and two semi-famous D-listers.

Living on the top floor—the actress and one of the legitimate businessman.

He’d decide how legit the man really was.

He didn’t hear anything through the steel apartment doors. He ran to the door on the far left, his gun pulled, pressed his ear against the cold metal, tried the doorknob.

Locked up tight.

The door on the far right was a different story—it gave easily against his touch, and he cautiously pushed it open, his weapon still drawn, but at his side.

A large man sprawled facedown on the rug, with no obvious signs of bleeding. But he was dead just the same.

There was silence and then a small groan. Female.

He stopped dead in his tracks and looked left, found her wedged behind the couch, where she’d obviously dragged herself for some cover in case unwelcome visitors came in.

Please let her be okay. Please
.

He closed the distance between the doorway of the apartment and Riley’s prone body. When he got to her, he noticed a second man, a few feet from her—he was faceup and most definitely dead, judging by the fact that half his skull was blown off.

Gingerly, he moved Riley’s hair and felt her pulse. Thready, but it was there.

She stirred, turned her head a bit.

Shit. “Riley, talk to me. How hurt are you?”

He saw a small bruise on her temple, which was nothing compared to the angry red marks that spanned along her neck.

Someone had tried to strangle her, but she was still breathing and she didn’t appear to have been shot. Nor had she done the shooting—her own weapon was still holstered.

Her phone was next to her cheek—he shoved it in his pocket as she stirred and looked at him, her eyes squinting.

“Get me out of here. Please. Fast,” she murmured before she slid into unconsciousness again. He checked around for anything that could easily identify her as having been here, like a purse, and saw nothing. She’d traveled light.

And as much as he wanted to run with her now, he rummaged through the clothing of the dead men for identification. He took both their wallets and stuffed them into his jeans—then scooped her up and took the stairs, hoping he wouldn’t run into anyone. By the time he got to the garage, she was moving in his arms, muttering something, over and over, but he couldn’t understand it.

He managed to get her into his car without incident, and squealed out of the lower lot. Mainly because they were no longer alone.

“Dylan.” Her eyes were wide as she stared past him out the side window, at the SUV heading straight for them.

“I see them, sweetheart. Buckle up—I can’t tell how bad this is going to be.” He shot forward as she did so, and heard her small gasp of pain. He really needed to get her some medical attention.

Cameras everywhere
.

He pulled out of the lot and into the street, his small car bouncing on its struts but then blending easily into the nighttime downtown traffic. There were a million small black expensive rental cars like his, all with darkened windows.

He checked the rearview and saw no sign of the Bronco that had threatened to plow into them back at the garage. That didn’t mean it wasn’t far behind but it gave him breathing room.