Читать книгу Game of Lies - Amanda K. Byrne - Страница 7

This place is a prison.

I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and don’t bother with any of the lights. It would only illuminate the chaos. Cleaning the apartment after the mess Josef and I made is pointless. Once I’ve finished what I’ve set out to do, I’ll be leaving it.

For now, it’s my prison. One of my own making. I don’t have to be here. I could have stuck with the plan. A single day, multiple hits, crippling Isaiah’s little uprising where it would hurt the most.

Then he decided to balance the scales by killing my father right in front of me. So. Here I am. Carving away little pieces of his infrastructure every day, and every night I come back here because it’s familiar. I know every creak, every whisper of sound. If I have to be constantly on guard, I want to do it in a place where there are no surprises.

I pull open the fridge for the pitcher of water and see my dinner sitting on the middle shelf. Nothing fancy, just a sandwich and a salad from the deli a few blocks over. Last night it was Chinese. There were leftovers when I went to bed last night, so Nick must have eaten them when he brought the sandwich by.

I snag the food and bump the door shut with my hip, then set everything on the counter before pulling out my phone. It powers on in silent mode, vibrating once in my hand as the screen flashes to life. One new text and several voicemails. I ignore them and call my mother.

The answering machine picks up, same as it has for the last thirteen calls. “Hi, Mom. It’s Cass. Can you pick up today? Please?” I asked the same thing on my previous calls; she never does. I stifle a sigh and give her another few seconds of silence. “I’ll be by tomorrow. You can tell me if you need anything when I see you.” I swallow hard. “I love you,” I whisper. “I miss you.”

I hang up before I break and bite into the sandwich. Turkey with avocado. The man’s a quick study. Tell him once that turkey sandwiches are always better with avocado, and he makes sure it’s on every one I eat.

I dial in for my voicemails and listen to them on speaker while I work my way through the salad.

“Cass, it’s Denise. Um. I hope everything’s okay. Nick called me the other day and said you were, but I still want to hear it from you. I wish there was something I could do. Just…call me, okay?”

Maybe someday when I feel more like a person than a machine, I can talk to her again. But I have to use this numbness while I can. I’m not ready to let it go yet. I delete her message and fork up more lettuce. I’ll text her in the morning. That I can do, and I owe her that much.

There’s a message from Lia, her voice timid in a way I’ve never heard from her, asking if there was anything she can do. Another from Con, telling me to come back, the guest room isn’t the same without me.

But nothing from Nick.

In a life full of ghosts, he’s become the newest one. The food is one way I know he’s been in my apartment. Sandwiches, soup, a new box of cereal, a small carton of milk. Have to keep my strength up.

I wonder if I’ll see him before I fall asleep.

I ball up my trash and toss it into the garbage can, then wander to the couch and switch on the lamp. Another sign Nick’s been here—the box holding my cleaning materials is closed up and moved to a corner of the coffee table. I used the whetstone this morning and forgot to put it away. I won’t need them tonight. Today’s marks were pretty clean, both dosed with potassium chloride. No blood to wash off.

I pull up my pant legs, unstrap the knife sheaths from around my ankles, and set them on the table in front of me. Slumping into the cushions, I tip my head back and shut my eyes, letting the exhaustion drag me down.

Revenge is tiring. It’s this physically, emotionally, mentally demanding monstrosity that swears it’s only looking out for me and wants me to be happy. It’s a fucking liar. Sometimes I picture it standing in a corner, snickering at me. Because as demanding as it is, it responds with a kick of adrenaline every time I get a step closer. Can’t give up now, Cass. Can’t give up after you’ve taken out two men in one day.

Only five more to go.

Rubbing my temples, I sit up and glance over at the door. Locked, of course. He won’t come to me while I’m still awake. Lucky for him, I’m about ready to keel over.

I make my way to the bathroom and strip, turn on the water as hot as I can stand, then let it stream over me as the steamy heat fills the small space. Nine men down. Five left at the top of Isaiah’s hierarchy, not counting him. Tris, his shadow, will be the most difficult. I’ve spent most of my spare time trying to find a way to get him alone, but he’s either at Isaiah’s side or surrounded by his fellow SWAT team members.

I blink away the water dripping into my eyes. Maybe that’s the solution. Maybe I should be focusing on the time Isaiah’s alone rather than trying to take out Tris. He usually leaves Isaiah with another guy when he has to go into work, but Isaiah doesn’t seem to have much confidence in the other guy; he won’t leave his latest base of operations without his shadow.

My brain ramps back up, pushing aside the dregs of fatigue as it tries to find a solution to this problem. I get out of the shower and dry off, annoyed with myself. Now I’ll never get to sleep. I have to get to sleep.

Sleep is when I see him.

It’s the one time of day I let my guard down because he’s there, surrounding me, making it possible to catch a few hours of rest. Those scant hours, four, five at a time, give me the strength I need to keep going.

We don’t talk. Or I don’t, anyway. Occasionally he’ll whisper to me in the dark. Tells me he loves me. Asks if I’m all right, even knowing I won’t respond. Not with words. Because the truth is I’m not all right. I haven’t been for a while, and Turner’s death only made it worse.

I ignore the goose bumps prickling my skin and braid my wet hair back. If I’m lucky, it won’t come loose during the night. Those are the nights he holds me tight enough I can’t move, the faint cinnamon scent of his soap lulling me to sleep.

I force myself to pick up my clothes and take them with me to the bedroom. I dump them into the hamper before I crawl into bed. The light’s still on in the living room, but he’ll turn it off when he comes in. I pull the covers up over my shoulders, shut my eyes, and settle in to wait.

The nightmares come first. They always do. Fragments of the moment I discovered Turner, bound to a chair with a gun to his head. Those horrifying seconds when I stare at my mother’s battered face. Scott’s pale skin as he realizes he’s been shot. Nick’s terror that I’m trapped in his house as fire eats away at the walls.

“Cassidy.”

With a shudder, I strain toward his voice. He repeats my name, my full name, not the quick and easy “Cass.” I roll over and grope blindly, swallowing a sob when my hands connect with warm skin. I scoot toward him, not stopping until my face is buried in his neck, his heartbeat sure under my palm.

Nick.

He wants me to stop. Wants me to come home despite the fact we don’t have one. It’s there in the way he holds me, in those murmured words I can’t always understand. I won’t go with him, and he knows it. So this is the compromise he’s reached. Every night, wrapped together in my old bed, and then he sneaks out in the pre-dawn light to leave me alone.

I need more tonight. I need him everywhere, anchoring me, letting me fly. I need to forget. I want to lose myself in him. We sleep naked. It’s never been a conscious taunt on my part, but the skin-to-skin contact is soothing. Tonight, I did it on purpose.

He murmurs a soft protest as I trail my mouth up the side of his throat, the stubble on his jaw rough against my lips. But he kisses me willingly, eagerly, as needy as I am for this connection.

It’s like a circuit coming online. The instant our mouths connect, my body lights up and my brain says yes. Legs tangling together, hips rocking, his tongue strokes mine, and I dig my nails into his shoulders, ready for more.

He loosens his hold and I whimper, afraid he’s pulling away. “Let me touch you, love,” he whispers.

Touch. We’re practically glued together, but our hands can’t slip between our bodies, explore all those places we found before. I ease back, my skin cooling instantly with the distance, but heat flares once again when he tweaks a nipple.

I lose track of time. My world consists of Nick’s hands and mouth on my skin, his low groans and shudders, warm darkness, and a strange, sweet tenderness I hoard for later. He props my leg on his hip and plunges into me, then rolls me onto my back and pins me to the mattress.

I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I wrap my limbs around him and hold on tight, his weight a comfort. Stroke after slow, shallow stroke, I climb with him, my mouth on any part of him I can reach. And when I finally break apart, he’s not far behind, leaving a rush of heat and love.

I moan quietly and reach for him as he shifts away, not comforted at all by the kiss he places on my palm. He leaves me huddled in the bed, slick between my thighs and listening to his movements, hoping he won’t leave but unable to tell him not to go.

The mattress dips behind me, and I turn over to see him sitting by my hip, washcloth in hand. Oh. Right. Sex is a messy business, and the smart thing would have been to get out of bed and clean up. Instead, he brings the cleanup to me.

After, he slides in beside me, skin to skin, my body warm and loose. “I miss you,” I mumble, lips moving over his collarbone.

He glides his hand up my spine and cups the back of my head. “It’s time to come home, Cass.” His chest rumbles with the words. “Time to stop. Come home with me.”

I hold him tighter because I know in the morning he’ll be gone.