You Are Here (26 page)

I looked at him and he seemed to force his shoulders away from his ears. His face relaxed. I blinked and swallowed the need to confront him. I still wasn’t sure I could handle it. “You. Growing up—something happy.”

He grumbled and fidgeted, scratching behind his ear. “Happy, huh?”

“Yeah.”

His fingers slipped, perhaps subconsciously, underneath the hem of my top, lightly tracing circles on the skin there. He thought for a while, humming occasionally in thought. I couldn’t discern if they were positive noises, given his ambiguous expression.

“When I was little, my mother baked a lot,” he began, breaking a solid minute of silence. “I always wanted to help because it meant chunks of cookie dough on the sly. And it let me believe I was favored by a parent, even if Drew wasn’t interested in helping.”

“Just eating.”

“Exactly.” He smiled, eyes sparkling just a bit. Worries thawed. “Regardless, it was more or less just me and my mom, and I felt really good. Like it didn’t matter if my dad didn’t like me. Momma loved me.”

“Baby,” I cooed, unable to stop the piteous tone of the endearment. When I looked up, he turned away with a mild snarl falling off his lips.

“Sorry. That’s probably not the kind of story you were looking for.”

“I loved it,” I snapped before he could trample all over the raw emotion, however unintentional.

He smiled, almost shyly. I kissed him on our silently agreed upon favorite spot, behind the ear at the jawline. I sat back to find his eyes. I saw gratitude and such love there—even if he hadn’t said it—that I nearly cried. Again. Thankfully, I was already dehydrated from the prior jag. That wasn’t to say he was peaceful, or still. Whatever still haunted him hadn’t gone anywhere. He cleared his throat and started again, his expression so much lighter, despite the dark cloud tethered to him.

“Maybe a story about the time Nash, Drew, and I got arrested for trespassing and attempted suicide?”

My stomach bottomed out and I sat up straight. “I’m sorry, what?”

He laughed as he held my shoulders still. “It’s nowhere as grim as it sounds, I promise.”

Still skeptical, I relaxed and cozied up to him, intent on watching his face as he recounted the incident.

“First, none of us had any sort of death wish. Second, we were drunk off our asses,” he said. “That part is pretty important to remember here.”

“No shit,” I agreed, smirking in relief and the genuine need to smile.

Chuckling, he continued, “We called the game ‘Hung and Quartered.’”

“Jesus Christ. Nash came up with that, didn’t he?”

“Of course. So, we were up at his family’s cabin near Poughkeepsie one summer and we were stupid bored.”

“And drunk.”

“Quite. Anyway, Nash and I cooked up this moronic idea, Drew and our friend Ben signed on and we were off. We found a small bridge and parked as close as we could get. I had made these genius duct-tape harnesses with the sticky side out. I figured out how to rig them to the side of the bridge while Nash dictated his bullshit rules. Essentially, we bungeed over the side, and once we were dangling from the bridge, we started pelting each other with coins. I have no idea where we got so many quarters. For all I knew, Nash knocked over a bank.”

“Most quarters stuck wins?” I asked. I couldn’t help but to notice the blatant difference in his features. Talking about this had him lit up with joy. He was relaxed and amused.

“Yeah. And it was just Nash and me playing. Drew and Ben passed out in the car. Ben was designated driver, but it was four in the morning and the kid never could hang late.”

“So how did you get arrested?”

His grin was so mischievous, my panties nearly took themselves off.

“When my coins were spent, I realized Nash was out cold, snoring like a logging machine, and probably drooling. I passed out and woke up in a cop car with a bag of ice on my head. Apparently I bumped into the bridge when they were pulling me up.”

I straddled his lap and kissed his forehead. I relished the feel of his hands as they slid around and locked on my hips. “Idiots.”

“Shitfaced idiots, thank you,” he insisted with a crooked smile.

I held his face in my hands and scanned every facet. I tucked a curl behind his ear, and leaned in, and planted a kiss on his lips. To my delight, I got stuck. The press of soft heat from his mouth held me there. I hummed, taking his lower lip between mine. Our embrace constricted to bring us much closer together. With an intense grip, he held me to him as though I were about to run away.

Grey

Balm

Lucie’s warm body wrapped tighter around me, fogging my mind with everything I was about to lose. Her hands settled on my face like a vow, and the heat of what I felt for her seared through my chest. Maybe it was shame—I’d basically come here to wreck her with the truth.

She gently kissed my lips before tucking her arms between us. “Would you just hold me? My mind is everywhere right now.”

“I’ve got you, my Lu.” I rubbed her back as I held her. “Why don’t you focus on one memory? Tell
me
something happy.”

She sat silent for quite a while, and the only movement was the push of her breasts against me as she breathed. “I don’t have any good ones.”

I cocked my head to the side. “That’s impossible. How could you be this amazing without a single positive experience?”

“Amnesia was a blessing,” she said, sitting up straight to reveal a gravely serious expression. “It gave me a blank slate for a while. Now, I … I feel like a lie.”

I stared at her, mouth agape, caught between empathy and frustration. “Baby, who you are now? You were always in there. Remember? You were just waiting for a chance.”

She looked through her lashes at me, a slow smile building a bridge to solid ground. She rested her palm over my heart. “I was waiting for you. You are that chance.”

I dropped my head to my chest and shook it. “No,” I said. “I’m not. I am a risk, though.”

The room seemed to empty of air and sound. I squeezed my eyes shut. Then her graceful fingertips lifted my chin, coaxing my darkness toward her light. Soft lips took mine. Gentle arms crushed me closer. Every wordless request, I obeyed. Flushed skin against my skin was comfort. My heart pushed love through my veins with a savage force, leaving nothing but her and her arms around me.

“I love this man.” This angel’s voice fell on my ears as softly as her lips caressed them.

She floored me. I twisted slowly and leaned back, my salvation above me. Always above me, but always with me. Wrapped in each other, we became still. I knew then that I was ruined.

When I’d come back, I intended to keep my promise to Drew and tell Lucie the truth and let the chips fall. I was derailed. Not just by sex, but by something else.

I knew who her family was now. I knew who worked for her family. And I knew exactly who relished his kills to the point that he’d pontificate and perform some elaborate soliloquy instead of just doing the fucking job.

Reese was coming back for her, but the only way he would touch her again would be over my dead body.

I love this woman
, the demon inside me said in magnificent conquest.

I’d never been in love before.

Lucie

Calm

I didn’t remember falling asleep, but when I woke, I was nestled in Grey’s arms in my bed. He seemed to be sleeping soundly. I felt so safe and comfy in our little cocoon, I hated to move.

Alas, nature called. As carefully as I could, I untangled myself from his embrace, but he stirred. His eyes blinked open. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and checked the time. I saw a flash of the clock: 3:29. He turned and looked at me, half-lidded. “What’s wrong?”

I smiled. “Nothing, sweet lips. Just gotta pee. Go back to sleep.”

On my way to the bathroom, I turned to look at him over my shoulder. He was watching me warily. I stopped. “What is it?”

“Hmm? Nothing.” He shook his head as he spoke. I raised my eyebrows at him, so he winked.

While I was in the bathroom, I found myself sniffing the shirt that I’d been sleeping in.
His
shirt. I shut my eyes and breathed him in. Grey smelled like comfort to me. I loved his smell. I loved
him
. I couldn’t believe I’d actually said it! He hadn’t said it back, but the way he touched me, the way he moved, kissed … I felt loved. I felt
safe
, as if I could handle anything as long as he was beside me.

I hurried back to find him waiting for me. I crawled up toward him and hunkered down into the exact spot I vacated. “I thought you’d crash right back out,” I said.

“Just making sure you made it back in one piece.”

I giggled and kissed his lips. He kissed me on our spot behind the ear before we settled in to go back to sleep. His hold on me seemed tighter than before.

Grey

Ghosts

The air was thick with booze, sex, celebration. And humidity.

The roar of the crowd, the music, the writhing bodies, or the pulse of the street could’ve easily distracted me, but I was focused. Even if I wore the mask of a joker, sequined with blue, jade, and violet plumes, Carnival in Rio was not a vacation. I was playing a part.

I ducked down an alley and pretended to wander to a dumpster a hundred yards past a homeless drunk. I quickly scanned for any eyes on me but found none. I reached inside and retrieved the large doctor bag I’d stashed there.

I followed the left fork of the next street, a dead end, and the abandoned building at the end. The door was unlocked—I’d made sure of it when I took the deadbolt apart around five o’clock this morning.

As I slipped inside, pitch-blackness surrounded me. I liked it that way. I could practically feel my way as if I had tiny antennae picking up signals across the expanse of my skin.

The building was all but in ruins—and empty. The only sounds were echoes from the distant party.

My breathing was even as I reached the third floor. I followed the load-bearing wall to the windows and crouched next to the third sill.

I laid my mask to the side of my bag and pulled on a pair of tight cotton gloves. Moonlight swamped the wrecked floor where I began to assemble my tools.

The clicks of the metal locking into alignment sent me into autopilot. When I was done, I held the rifle in my gloved hands to inspect it. Satisfied, I set it gently on the floor. The window had been removed from the frame earlier, so I set the tripod on the ledge and secured the stand.

I heard a whisper.

I drew a small pistol from the holster under my arm and whipped around to take aim. Well-adjusted to the dark, my eyes saw nothing. There was no movement.

I sucked in a deep breath and set the gun on the floor directly next to me. I returned to face the sill. As I moved to pick up the rifle, I heard it again but clearer.

“Greyson.”

I palmed the pistol and shoved my back against the wall to the left of the window and searched the cavernous room again with every available sense. No one ever used my real name.

It was an impossible occurrence, but I refused to believe I was losing my mind. I slid down the exposed brick, holding the pistol against my chest. I pinched my eyes shut.

“Greyson, get the bowl for mama.”

My mother’s voice was as clear as a bell. My eyes popped open as if they’d been squeezed to the point that they might burst. What I’d heard was clearly a figment of my imagination. It had to be.

The tension eased, though not as quickly as I’d have liked. I turned back to work, pushing the voice from my mind. If I could exorcise memories completely, I would, but I’d yet to find a priest who could do such a thing. Or a religion that had a priest who could do such a thing.

The rifle readied, I sat back against the wall to wait. As I listened to the revelry, I felt a stab of pain behind my eyes and I flinched. The pang was cold and sharp like an ice pick. I blinked hard and fast.

Mercifully, I heard the sound I’d been waiting for. I looked through the rifle’s high-powered sight, magnifying and pinpointing my target.

Blaring horns announced the president and his wife as they walked to the front of the humongous grandstand. The president stepped to the microphone centered behind a pile of flowers and crepe paper. His wife beamed at his side, her arm through his. After minutes of cheering, he began to speak. At that moment, his wife stepped away to stand back the expected two paces. I tapped the button on the side of my gun.

Click.

On. The tiniest red dot appeared on her forehead. I felt the ice pick behind my eyes again. I closed my eyes. Smooth inhale. My finger curled smoothly around the trigger, resting inside the guard. A long, slow exhale.

“You can lick the bowl, honey.”

Snap.

Trigger pulled, assignment completed.

My breathing remained steady though my heart thudded in my chest. Just a phantom, I told myself as I shook off a chill and willed the throbbing headache away. I have no mother.

I turned my attention to dismantling things while the chaos outside slowly erupted. I picked up the empty bag and wiped down the handle. I returned the same way I’d come in.

Once outside, I passed a burning trashcan and threw the bag in. Leaving the gun didn’t matter. It was a common rifle frequently used by South American gangs and rebel militias. The guns appeared amateur and cobbled together. This gun had no fingerprints, and no ties to me.

I was a hair’s breadth from disappearing when a hand gripped my shoulder. As soon as I had felt fingers touch my collarbone, I moved accordingly. Locking my fingers around my opponent’s wrist, I spun him, laying him out on the ground before me. His wrist was held back at its breaking point.

But I couldn’t hear him. It was as if I’d gone deaf. Then, my vision went blurry. I couldn’t see his face.