“Nope,” I say with a shrug, already pissed at myself for caring. “Go ahead and get yourself killed. No skin off my back. In fact, it’s the quickest way for you to get out of my hair.” I regret the words the minute they are out of my mouth. I feel like I’m bad-mouthing Stella, but fuck if I’m going to take them back.

I turn to walk away – from her, from this partnership, from everything – when her voice stops me.

“Nah. The quickest way for you to get someone to leave you alone is to fuck them.”

Is she serious? It’s the second time she’s insulted my bedroom ability, and I’m not letting it go this time. I’m back in her face in the blink of an eye, hands on her shoulders so that I can give her a little shake. Even though right now I detest this woman, it’s taking everything I have not to drag her up against me and kiss her senseless to show her just how wrong she is.

And what exactly she’ll never get a chance at again.

“I must have mistaken your crying out loud when you came last night, then… because last time I checked, a man’s gotta have some skill and a large dick to make a woman come without any foreplay. And I know for a fact that you came,” I say in an implacable tone.

The sounds of a flailing city erupt all around us, and yet all I can hear is that damn hitch in her breath. The one that tells me I’ve called her bluff and for now, that’s enough to pacify my ego she tried to bruise, because I’m beginning to learn that touching her in any capacity gets my blood humming.

And I don’t want it to hum when she’s near.

“Rest assured, I don’t need a man in order to come.” She quirks her eyebrows up and purses her lips. “Now that we’ve got that out in the open, get your hands off me.”

“Gladly. I assure you I won’t touch you again,” I mutter as I glare at her, the tension in my muscles from touching her relaxing fiber by fiber as we exchange silent fuck yous.

“I’ve got shit to do. I’m assuming you ran after me because you realized I’m right about the boss man.” Her slight smirk and the gloating expression in her eyes are the only physical signs that she knows she’s won this one. All I can do is stand and grit my teeth as I bite back how I really feel about it. I’m most definitely not admitting to her that she’s right in any capacity. That would give her an advantage in a situation where she already seems to own the upper hand. She stares a beat longer before reaching in her pocket to pull out a small piece of paper with a number written in perfect penmanship. “Here’s my number. Call me when you get a lead. Otherwise stay the hell away from me.”

I take the paper as she walks past me. Out of habit, I turn to watch her and curse myself when I want to tell her she can’t go that way. That there’s nothing but a maze of alleys and a few unsavory characters I’ve been warned about by my own sources. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily with my hands fisted at my side, telling myself it’s none of my business where she goes or what she does.

So why in the flying fuck am I walking back toward her? I guess babysitting mode is in full effect, and I hate that I’m playing the part of nanny and putting the baby gate around her.

“Beaux!” Even when I say her name, I’m cursing myself for it. “Beaux!” She just keeps walking, causing my better judgment to win out over my obstinacy.

“I said stay away… and it’s BJ to you.” She stops and turns around, but a passerby on the sidewalk bumps harshly against her shoulder. Her small frame sways from the contact, and I’m beside her in two strides.

“You can’t go that way unless you’re looking for trouble.” I decide to ignore her comment.

She just shakes her head and starts walking away from me, but at least she’s moving in the direction of the hotel. I swear I hear her mutter something about always looking for trouble, but I miss the rest of it when a car passes in between us, the sound drowning out her voice.

My feet kick up the dirt on the street as I try to catch up to her. I lie to myself that I want to talk to her to establish some kind of ground rules about how we’ll work together, try to restore a professional level, but I know I’m just making sure she gets back into the confines of the hotel safely.

The barely chilled air-conditioned lobby of the hotel meets us as we enter, but it feels like heaven in contrast to the stifling heat outside. If she knows I’m beside her, she doesn’t acknowledge it, and that’s fine with me. I just want to make sure she’s nice and tucked away in her room where I don’t have to worry about her for a bit while I try to drum up some leads.

The elevator doors open on cue as we approach. I step in right behind her, lean against the rear wall, and fold my arms across my chest to mimic her posture. The doors close, but neither of us moves in a game of chicken. Just when the doors start to open up again without the car ascending, Beaux steps forward and presses the button for the twelfth floor. She looks over to me and raises her eyebrows in question.

“My room, please. You remember where that is, right?” I angle my head, stare at her, and enjoy watching her cheeks flush with anger.

I wait for the snide comment to come, but she just turns and faces the doors of the elevator without pushing the button for the eighth floor. Tension is so thick in the car, you can all but see it.

“I don’t trust you,” I say evenly, but it cuts through the silence.

“Good,” she says matter-of-factly as the car alerts our arrival on the twelfth floor. “Be careful whom you trust – the devil was once an angel, you know.”

And with that she walks off the elevator without another word, her comment already replaying in my mind.

Chapter 5




The shrieks of mass chaos and the sound of desperate and injured people suffering ring in my ears, the scent of gunpowder and blood haunts my psyche as my own shout dies on my lips.

The nightmare slowly fades into the darkness of my hotel room as I wake, leaving me with nothing but the thundering of my pulse in my ears, along with memories I wish I could erase and a chest damp with sweat.

“Just a dream,” I mutter into the silence, hoping the sound of my voice chases away the ghosts still lurking.

But it’s no use. No matter how much time has passed, I can still hear that unsteady thread in her breath. The one I fixated on as fear and pain contorted her face because regardless of the false hope I clung to, that sound told me the truth I couldn’t run from.

That Stella was going to die.

“Fucking hell.” The words do nothing to abate the pressure in my chest, and frankly, I’m sick of feeling it. That’s why I had to get back here. Get back to the one thing I can focus on. Ironic really, considering this is where it happened, but at the same time, I need this, need to be back in the thick of it all so I’m not scared by it. Because when nightmares and reality are the same, it’s harder to fear them.

And you sure as hell can’t outrun them.

I lie back on the bed and scrub my hand over my face. When I open my eyes again, they’re drawn to the spiderweb of cracks in the ceiling above me. As I will myself back to sleep to no avail, I try to quiet my head by tracing the cracks along their broken path through the darkened room. I know that the jet lag is going to kick my ass in the coming days and I need the sleep, but no matter how much I try, I’m wide awake. Sleep doesn’t come.

The sounds of a drowsy city slowly stirring to life begin to float up to my room, and when I look over at the clock, I realize it is five a.m. and I’ve been staring at the damn ceiling for way too long. I give up hope that I’m going to fall asleep. Feeling restless despite the exhaustion deep in my bones, I shove up out of bed, knowing what to do to clear my head.

The clank of weights keeps me company. The cinder-block room is cramped and has two lightbulbs hanging by wires from the ceiling, but I don’t care about the ambience because the physical exertion is exactly what I need right now.

The burn of my muscles as I squat down with the bar on my shoulder and focus on the proper form forces me to clear my head. I swear my laser-honed concentration on what I’m doing makes me feel every single rivulet of sweat that runs down my bare chest. And that’s a good thing because if I’m concentrating on that, there’s no room for anything else. Music blares in my earbuds, but my own grunt of strength to rise back to standing interrupts the sound.

I puff out a breath as I rack the weight bar, having completed my reps and then some, before I drop to sit on a bench against the far wall of the room. My muscles are liquid fire, but God it feels good to work out the anger churning inside me. I rub my T-shirt over my face and hair to wipe the sweat away as I catch my breath for a moment, my body exhausted but in such a productive way.

The cold concrete wall feels hella good as I lean my shoulders against it and close my eyes. Beaux’s face flashes in my mind, and I wonder if she’s why I feel so restless. Maybe I just need to see her, set some guidelines for this fucked-up situation I’ve been forced into, and then maybe I’ll get back into my groove a little quicker. What the fuck kind of way is it to start a working relationship when you’ve seen the other person naked and heard that sound they make as they climax? Talk about stepping out on the wrong foot.

I don’t like her. Plain and simple. I had a moment of bad judgment, a lot of alcohol, and wanted some sex. Little did I know the woman I chose would be the new partner I don’t want.

Fuck.

The quicker I rectify the situation the better. I need structure in my life – I thrive on it – to function in this tumultuous country where every day is something different and yet the exact same. But having Beaux here adds an unpredictability element, and so the quicker I let her know how I operate, the better off we’ll be in the long run.

Maybe I’ll even suck it up for the sake of calming the churning waters and apologize for the one-night stand.

Nah. Fuck it. She came with me willingly, left on her own accord. No need to set the precedent that I’m in the wrong when I know I’ve done nothing of the sort. Now I just need to decide whether I believe that she purposefully slept with me or whether it was purely a coincidence.

The jury’s still out on that one.

I glance at my watch and figure it’s okay to go knocking on her door since it is seven thirty. Maybe that’s a little dick-ish, but at least I’ll learn if she’s a morning person or not; I can play it off like I want to make sure she can be up and ready if we get a call on a lead.

I’m winded by the time I leave the hotel’s basement where the makeshift gym is located and jog up the thirteen flights of steps to the twelfth floor. Once I walk into the hallway, I realize I have no clue which room is Beaux’s. Only one way to find out.

I grab my cell phone from my pocket and pull up her number, walking the short distance of the hallway as the ring fills my ear. It takes a few moments, but I hear the faint ring on my right-hand side and follow it until I’m standing outside room twelve thirteen.

My hesitation over having the wrong room is fleeting as my knock resonates through the empty corridor. Beaux’s voice mail picks up, her throaty voice filling my ear at the same time the ringing on the other side of the door I’m standing at ceases. At least I know I have the right room.

I rap on the door again and listen for any sign of movement behind the door but hear nothing. I call again, almost determined to wake her up now, prove a point that she thinks she can handle this job but that she can’t. Fuck yeah, I’m being a prick, but I don’t care.

Her voice mail picks up again. I pound one more time and press my ear to the door. I tell myself I just want to wake her up, but unease begins to creep up on me. Why isn’t she answering? Is she that dead-to-the-world tired?

Or is something wrong?

I fist my hand against the door to prevent myself from pounding it down as the same worries I always had over Stella’s safety in this godforsaken land come back with a vengeance.

She has to be asleep. No one leaves their cell behind anymore these days. Maybe she sleeps with earplugs in or music on or some other lame excuse for being unable to hear me. I accept the attempt at rationalization but can’t ignore that feeling in my gut that tells me otherwise.