Long Way Down (Fallen Angels MC) (7 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The right thing to do would be to nod, to let him go, and to keep the past 24 hours packed away, crystallized in amber, for viewing on cold nights. To let it tell her something about the kind of guy she wanted to meet, and then to forget the specifics. Jack was right. She had no idea who Mason was, or if he was involved with something. This could all be an incredibly convincing act. She’d fallen for them before.

“No,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”

He laughed, a harsh, cold bark. “Are you kidding right now?”

“No.”

“You are something else, you know that? I am
trying
to protect you.”

“Yeah, I can practically see you, putting on your armor and mounting up on your white charger to ride off into certain death while the wee little woman waits at home, doing whatever the hell it was Odysseus’ wife did while she was waiting.” She put herself in his space again, and he let her, scoffing at her.

“Did you ever hear of mixing your metaphors?”

Attempting to divert with sarcasm. Her therapist had called her a pro at that. “Yes. You ever hear of accepting help when you need it?”

“I did.” Each word was carefully enunciated, but his eyes never quite met hers. They came close, very close, but never quite locking in. “I came to you when I needed help, and now I’m leaving. I appreciate the help you’re offering, but I don’t need it. I don’t need to be worried about you when shit goes down.”

“What shit is going to go down, Mase? What’s so bad that I can’t help?”

His expression was darker than the summer sky before a thunderstorm. “War.”

“What?”

“I’m going to go to the garage. Declan will be there, he always is. I’m going to tell him what I know. His goons will try and protect him. If God is willing, some guys will fall on my side as well. And we’ll chase him out, or he’ll kill me. One or the other. There’s no other way this will fall down.”

Caroline thought she’d probably shown more emotion choosing between oatmeal and toast for breakfast than Mason did, talking about his own death. He stood like a soldier, his shoulders back, his muscles loose and ready for combat. She watched him and wanted to cry without entirely knowing why. “Call the cops,” she said. “We’ll turn over everything we’ve found, we’ll tell them what Jack found out.”

He was already shaking his head. “We’ve been over this, Caro. Cops in a sleepy little New England town aren’t going to look further than the obvious guy.”

“You’re a war hero.”

He snorted. “I’m a soldier. There’s a big difference.” He sighed, took her hands and lifted them to his lips, kissed each and every one of her knuckles, and then placed an extra on each wrist. “I have to do this my way, Caro. I’m going to go now, and if I can, I’ll come back to you. I’ll always come for you.”

“You know, in the movies? That didn’t work out so well for the guy.”

He shrugged, and her heart stilled. “You’ll just have to find the six-fingered man, then.”

“Now who’s mixing metaphors?”

He kissed her, hard and fast, and she could feel the good-bye in it, knew that he didn’t think he’d ever see her again. She kissed him back just as hard, opening his mouth with his tongue, giving him her urgency, her desperation, begging him to come back to her. Begging him to survive.

And then he stepped back, pressed one more delicate, close-mouthed kiss to her lips, and was gone.

After that, everything kind of stopped for a while.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

When Caroline lifted her head from her hands, it was getting dark outside. Her eyes ached from crying, and she was nauseated from the intensity of emotion, the surety that he was gone, and that she had never been willing to say she was starting to fall in love with him. She called herself every crappy name she could think of, coward and chicken and wuss and baby. She still couldn’t get up off the edge of the bed.

He was right. What was she really going to do? The cops weren’t going to look past the illegal doings of the club long enough to call him a soft drug dealer instead of a hard one. That wasn’t the cops’ job. And even if he somehow cut a deal, if that worked like it did on TV, he was still going to lose all the contacts and trust he had in the community, probably even the legitimate ones. There’d be nothing left for him, nothing at all.

Except for her. But what did they have, really? A couple of red-hot encounters, and a fondness for the same books. What else? Nothing proven; nothing but instinct that they got along well. It wasn’t enough to base a life on. Not enough to give up everything he’d worked for in his life. He needed more than that. And she couldn’t give it to him. Not at all.

He’d left everything in the kitchen, all of the check stubs, the books, the bills she’d carefully gone through. It confused her at first, but she suspected that he felt that there was no evidence that would convince these guys of anything. No matter what, it was going to be his word against Declan’s. Still, she tried to consider it a positive sign. He was going to come back. He’d left everything here. She was going to get the chance to figure out if this thing was a thing worth investigating.

The bell for her front door rang, followed quickly by fast, hard knock. Her heart raced—had Mason come back? Already? She forced herself to walk to the door, even though her feet wanted to run, more than anything. She didn’t look through the peephole before opening the door.

It took a second for her brain to recognize that it wasn’t him. She saw the leather jacket and smiled before she saw him. His dark hair was shorn close to his head. His eyes were dark as well, but cold, colder than a January deep freeze. She could see tattoos climbing up his neck from the collar of his white t-shirt, and the patches on his leather jacket seemed darker, bloodier, and more menacing. “Hi there,” he said. “You have something of mine. And I’d like it back now.”

She tried to run, but he was fast, catching her arm in his hand and yanking her against his body, even as he slammed the door and covered her mouth. She threw her head back, trying to catch his nose with her head, but he dodged. She was barefoot, and he was wearing motorcycle boots; she wasn’t going to do any damage to his feet or legs. His grip was rock hard. There was no way she was going to pull away from him. His hand was tight on her mouth, but she managed to get her teeth open and bite down hard on the fleshy part of his hand.

He grunted, pulled his hand away, and his grip relaxed enough that she was able to get away from him. She ran for the kitchen; the connecting door let out into the garage, and she’d be able to get to her car, or even just run out into the street.

She heard his boots slamming into the floor as he chased her. She didn’t scream, didn’t look back. Just ran. And then a black and white blur flew past her, silent and growling, hitting the intruder in the torso hard enough that he huffed out his air, but Gloria didn’t have enough mass to knock him over and the guy managed to shove her weight aside.

Caroline heard the meaty slam of the dog crashing into the door jamb with a sick cry, and she couldn’t help herself; she turned, desperate to see if Gloria was okay, and in that moment he caught her. He caught her, yanked her into his body, and cuffed her in the temple, hard. She saw stars, fading into blackness.

There was a sound. A rhythmic sound, kind of metallic. Slapping sound. Slap, slap, slap. She tried to open her eyes, but everything was blurry and distant. Focusing was hard. Someone was talking to her, someone was right in her face, and she wanted to pull away from the stench of oil and engine grease. But they were in her face, in her eyes, and she was coughing, and coughing made her head hurt, hurt so much that her vision snapped back into focus.

He was smiling at her, a crazy person smile that put her in mind of monster movies and supervillains. “Welcome back,” he said, and his pleasant voice didn’t match up to his cold, dead eyes or the evil in his expression. “It’s time for us to talk.”

Gloria was barking, growling, snapping, going crazy, but the sound was far away. She’d been locked in the garage, maybe, from the connecting door. That was good. She wouldn’t make that much of a fuss if she’d broken a rib or, god help them both, her back. And the neighbors might come over to check on the noise—Gloria was never loud during the day—or they might even call the police.

But it was the middle of the day and most people would be out, not at home, not here to get worried in the first place. Someone would find her if she could manage to make the time pass. She had to kill time.

“I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about,” she said. It seemed like a good place to start negotiating.

He slapped her this time, hard enough to snap her face to the side and give her jangled brain another spin. She felt her center of balance teeter; he caught the chair before she tipped over. It was only in that moment that she realized he’d tied her down.

With the small corner of her brain not overwhelmed with staying conscious under this assault, she thought that it was shocking how different this moment was from the sweet and kind one she’d shared with Mason earlier.

Nothing in this moment was even remotely arousing. What a difference consent made, she mused, and she laughed in the monster’s face. She thought he might hit her again, and if he did she might lose consciousness, and maybe this whole thing would just be over.

He didn’t hit her. He watched her, laughing along with her, those cold eyes never changing. “The thing is, darling, I know you’re lying. You left his papers—my papers—scattered all over this pretty kitchen. Your friend, the one who told you who opened the account? He’s my friend as well. He called me as soon as he got off the phone with you.” He grinned while her heart bled into her shoes at the thought of Jack turning on her. “I learned a long time ago that it pays to have a cop on my payroll.”

She could breathe again. Good. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Jack. Jack might be in danger; she’d have to get in touch with him—but right now, she needed to save her own skin.

‘I just want to know where Mason is,” he continued. “I want to know how much he knows. And then I’ll go. I won’t bother you for one more minute.”

She didn’t believe him for a second. His eyes were a corpse’s, and they hadn’t been touched by emotion in this lifetime. “I keep telling you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. A guy showed up, he dropped off some papers for me to look at, offered to pay twice my usual consulting fee. I told him to come back on Tuesday, so I’d have a chance to look things over. I’d barely gotten started.”

He started to say something, but then a sound caught his attention. She heard it too, the roar of a motorcycle engine, so out of place on this street in the middle of the afternoon. He tapped the metallic thing—a heavy wrench, she saw—against her countertop again, and that wretched grin got a little wider. “Looks like ‘some guy’ decided to play the white knight. Idiot.”

He left her; left her tied up in the kitchen, and went towards the front door. She didn’t know what to do. Scream and warn him? Try and free herself? The ropes were tight around her arms and legs, and she didn’t think she could get free on her own. Maybe if she was Black Widow or something, but as just plain Caroline Lewis? It wasn’t going to happen.

She waited for Mason to come in the door, bursting in and calling her name, but it didn’t happen. The door opened; from where she was tied down, she couldn’t see that side of the living room. She bit her tongue. If she called out, he’d run towards her, she was pretty sure of it, and he’d get the guy’s wrench to the back of his head. They’d both be dead. She had a chance at rescue here, and she couldn’t blow it. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to make it bleed and kept herself quiet.

But it wasn’t her name that Mason called out. “Declan? The guys said I could find you here. What’s up, man?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

His voice echoed through the house, and she didn’t hear Declan answer him. She heard his heavy boots clomping through the living room towards the kitchen. She wanted to warn him off, but she didn’t dare. If her story that she barely knew him was going to hold up, she couldn’t be screaming his name like his damn girlfriend.

Mason stepped into the kitchen and saw her. She saw the fear and the rage slide through his eyes, and then saw his expression shift clear. “Declan?” he called again. “I know you’re here, and there seems to be a pretty accountant tied up in the kitchen? You trying to get charged with kidnapping?”

Declan slid out of shadows that had hidden him so thoroughly, Caroline hadn’t even really seen him. “I haven’t kidnapped her,” Declan said. “To kidnap her, I’d have to take her somewhere. We were just having a conversation, and I wanted to make sure I had her full attention. Isn’t that right, pretty accountant?” He gave her a cold grin, and she shut her mouth stubbornly, wishing that death glares were literal.

Mason nodded. “I see. Makes sense.”

Her heart plummeted. If he were just agreeing with Declan to drag the conversation out until he got an opening, she was sure he would have—god, signaled her somehow? Done something to tell her she was going to be okay.

“I thought so,” Declan said. “But then, I can’t see how it makes sense for our books to be in the house of someone who isn’t initiated. That seems like an incredibly fool thing for someone to have done. So I thought maybe my sense of right and wrong had gotten tangled up somewhere.”

There was an intense game of cat and mouse going on here, and Caroline felt a bit like the ball of yarn in the middle of the two of them. Mason nodded to Declan, then crossed to her chair, starting to mess with the ropes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Declan asked, his voice quietly curious, which somehow sounded much more threatening than anger.

“Dec, this lady can already ID us. I get why you’re concerned, but this is club business. Let’s not get her involved. Let’s go back to the garage, and you and me, we can talk this out.”

The wrench, still in Declan’s hand, was moving, slapping into his open palm again and again. Caroline’s stomach was roiling, and she could feel a fine tremor in Mason’s hands as he worked to unknot the ropes. “The fact that she can ID us is going to be irrelevant.”

Caroline froze, and she felt Mason going still behind her. “That’s a pretty big jump, Dec, even for you.”

“I’ve worked a long time to get as far as I have, Mase.” The jeer in Declan’s voice made Caroline shudder. “There have been losses along the way. I’m not going to screw it up now. I’m sorry you got involved at all. But, hey, tell you what, we can have some fun with the bitch before we leave, if you want.” He chuckled. “Heard that was why you came back here, anyway.”

Caroline felt the rope give around her ankles, felt something light and flexible press into her hands, and then Mason stood up. “Been there, done that,” he said. “Dumb slut was lousy in bed. Not worth our trouble.”

Oh. So that was it felt like to be sucker punched. Her eyes were watering. That was the only possible explanation.

Declan laughed. “Really? She looked uptight enough that she might be pretty damn fun, once you convinced her that she was taking your dick whether she liked it or not.”

Mason laughed back, and Caroline couldn’t hear it being forced or faked. “I know, right? But no, she grabbed onto the pillow and bit her lip and didn’t make a peep. Boring as hell.

Declan laughed and held out a fist; Mason tapped it with his and continued. “But seriously, man, there’s no reason to kill her. She doesn’t know anything, not really. You own the dirty cop who gave her the info, so it’s not like there’s anyone to testify against you. She can’t prove a thing without that.”

“She knows enough that the police would look into it. And that would cause some issues with trust between me and my— clients.” Declan’s wicked smile hadn’t ever vanished. “Why are you so mellow about this, my man? It had occurred to me that this might be a source of stress for you, if you ever found out about it.”

Mason laughed again, that easy, honest, unforced laugh. “That was before I saw how much money you were pulling in. A man has needs, after all.”

Declan watched him for a long moment. “I let the girl live, and you bring your guys over to my side?”

Mason nodded. “And I don’t cause any more trouble for you. I’ll be your right hand man from here until the end.”

Declan looked back and forth, from Mason to Caroline and back again. She could see his cold eyes adding and subtracting, doing the calculus of what her life was worth. She tried to look innocent and scared to death. The second part wasn’t hard at all. “All right,” he said. “After all, it’s not like there are too many people you give a shit about in the world. And if you get too far out of line?” The grin widened, if that was even really possible. “I know where she lives. You’re a shitty liar, Butler.”

Mason’s eyes chilled down, cold and hard as ice. “I told you already, Dec. I want nothing to do with this slut. Kill her if it means so much to you. I’ll see you back at the garage.” He didn’t look at Caroline again. Not as he gathered up the papers he’d brought to her house, not as he stuffed them into his saddlebag, and not as he pushed past her to leave, the same way he’d come in, each and every time.

Declan McDermott, tall, stocky, tattooed, evil, stood in her kitchen, his smile morphing into a smirk. “Well look at that. I guess your boy wasn’t worth defending after all, huh, gorgeous?”

He tapped Caroline under the chin. “Sorry you got your panties all twisted up for him. If it makes you feel better, he’ll probably end up in a dumpster before the month is out. He talks a good game, but he doesn’t have the stomach for this life. Not really. And, hey! When you hear it on the news, you’ll know you helped put him there. I bet that’ll be nice for you.”

He tossed the wrench, watching it spin in the air, and in her fantasies, she tackled him then, bowling him over, smashing his head into the floor again and again, until it was a bloody ruin. In reality, though, she hung in the chair, limp against the ropes that Mason had loosened, sick and trying not to vomit. He’d abandoned her. He’d called her a slut. He was after the money, that was all.

Declan left. He whistled while he walked out the door, as if he hadn’t just assaulted her, tied her up, threatened her. She did throw up, twice. Once she made it to the bathroom. Once she did not.

And then she threw clothes, toiletries, wallet, laptop, into a duffle bag. She got Gloria into the backseat of the car—the dog went insane when she went out to the garage, licking her and growling past her, even though the house was empty—and she started it.

She backed out of the driveway, her hands shaking so hard that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold the car steady on the road. She managed to call Jack, leave him a message, telling him to stay safe, that someone had been to her house, that he needed to be careful. She called twice. She tried not to think about the fact that he wasn’t picking up.

Shock, she thought. This is what shock feels like.

It felt like sinking. It felt like drowning. It felt like nothing at all.