Читать книгу Game of Lies - Amanda K. Byrne - Страница 8

He’s still here.

Don’t ask me how I know this. We haven’t been together long enough for me to have developed that mythical sixth sense of knowing when my boyfriend is in the same space as me, but he’s here. A giddy bubble of happiness rises, then pops when I remember my task for the day: eliminate crony number five.

The walls come back up, the shields slam down, and I get out of bed and pull on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. I tug the band from the bottom of my braid as I walk out of my bedroom.

Nick’s on the couch, dressed in jeans and a dark blue button-up with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. “You look like shit,” I say, working my fingers through the remains of my braid.

He does. Despite the tidiness of his appearance, there are lines digging in around his mouth and between his brows. His hair has progressed beyond the casually messy stage and into the unkempt stage. But it’s his eyes that threaten to break me. They’re as weary-looking as I feel. If the hours of solid sleep I manage are few, his must be fewer, given he wakes before I do and steals out of my apartment.

“You don’t look much better.” He stands and gestures to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

I nod. “This is a change. You’re usually gone when I wake up.” Braid finally undone, I duck into the bathroom, retrieve my hairbrush, and run it through my hair, wincing as it snags on a few tangles. I pull it into a ponytail and step back into the living room, murmuring my thanks when Nick hands me a mug of coffee.

“Circumstances necessitated the change. We can do this two ways—the easy way or the hard way.” He swallows coffee and takes his seat on the couch. “You have to stop, Cass.”

I arch a brow as I sip my coffee. “I assume this must be the hard way you’re referring to? Talking me out of it? Isaiah’s still alive, Nick. I’m not stopping now.”

“You’ve done plenty of damage on your own in the last two weeks,” he agrees. “But some of the families are asking questions, and while we’ve gotten to most of the bodies in time, there were a couple discovered before we could take care of them.”

“And the police can’t bury the cases?” Clean up isn’t in my wheelhouse, and while I did my best to take out my targets in concealed spaces, it wasn’t always possible. Leaving Nick to deal with my fallout is a selfish move on my part.

It’s eating at me from the inside out.

“Our pull with LAPD only goes so far. You go after Tris, and we’ll have none.”

“Actually, I think I have a way around that.” Worried by the sudden weakness in my legs, I make my way to the opposite end of the couch. Guess I didn’t sleep as well as I thought I did. I gulp more coffee. “Whenever Tris has to report for work, he leaves another guy with Isaiah, but I get the feeling Isaiah doesn’t trust him. He won’t leave his safe house until Tris returns.” I lean forward and set my mug on the table. My hands are starting to shake, and I’d rather not burn myself. “If I can get inside the safe house, or get Isaiah out without Tris dogging him, I can end this.” I dig my nails into the side of my thigh. The pain is a weak, brief flash that does nothing to overtake the encroaching fatigue.

“It doesn’t matter, Cass. You’ve lost the family’s backing. Any more bodies turn up, they won’t help you hide them.” He sighs and places his mug on the table.

I scrub my hands over my face. “So I refocus on Isaiah. That’s fine. Another week, it’ll all be over.” My head is heavy. I turn sideways and rest it on the back of the couch.

He shifts around to face me, the weariness in his gaze absolute. “That’s just it. I can’t run damage control for you any longer. You don’t get another week. My father, Con’s father, they’re not disagreeing something needs to be done, or even the way it’s being done. You changed the plan, and no one knows where you’re going to hit next. That’s what they object to.”

Goddamn patriarchy. “I’d rather hit first, apologize later.” I’ll come up with a different plan. Tris doesn’t strike me as a leader. It’ll take the remaining five men some time to figure out how—or if—they’re going to continue with this little revolution.

Why am I so fucking tired?

He shakes his head. “You don’t have a choice in this matter anymore.” My eyelids droop as he stands, jostling the cushions. I can’t even lift my head as he bends over me, lips brushing a kiss across my temple. “I’m sorry, Cass,” he whispers.

Sorry? What’s he sorry for? I try to ask him, but all I manage is an unintelligible mumble. Every part of me feels like it’s encased in cement, the battle to stay awake a losing one.

Sorry.

The coffee.

He slides one arm under my knees, the other behind my back, and I want to hit him.

The bastard drugged my coffee.

* * * *

This bed is not mine. It’s not one of Nick’s, and it’s not the bed in Constantine’s guest room. I push my nose into the pillow.

It’s too clean.

I slit open an eye. There’s a table beside the bed with a small lamp and a bottle of water. I reach out to grab the water and stop.

Coffee.

Drugs.

My boyfriend drugged me.

I shoot up in bed fast enough to trigger a dull, aching throb behind my eyes, and I squeeze them shut. Whatever Nick doped me with has given me a headache and a mouth desperately in need of water. After several deep breaths, the throbbing fades to a manageable level, and I open my eyes again.

The room is dim. Light’s coming in from somewhere, and I twist around to find the source. High windows line the wall behind the bed. The room itself is long and kind of narrow, the walls white. Other than the bed and the table, the only other furniture is a tall cabinet in the corner.

I push aside the blankets—how considerate of Nick to make sure I was comfortable while I was unconscious—and plant my feet on the floor. At some point, he took off my pants, and the air in the room is cool enough to make me shiver. My legs hold me up, so I walk to the cabinet and pull open the doors.

Why are my clothes hanging in here? I tug on a sleeve and frown. I left most of my clothing at Constantine’s. Flipping through the hangers, it looks like all my clothes have been moved here. What’s not hanging up is in the shallow drawers below. I snag a pair of fleece pants I haven’t seen before and pull them on, then head for the door.

Nick earns back a point when the knob turns easily in my hand. I half expected him to have me locked in the room. I step onto what appears to be a catwalk and peer over the railing to the floor below.

It’s a warehouse.

Nick’s got me in a warehouse.

Granted, it’s a small-ish warehouse. The floor below is mostly covered in mats, though one quarter of the space holds free weights, a couple of cardio machines, and other random exercise equipment.

I study the length of the catwalk. The room I’m in is on one end. I open the door next to my room, a groan of relief escaping when I see it’s a bathroom. Even if the bottle on the nightstand is sealed, I don’t trust it. I wash my hands, turn the hot water to cold, and cup them under the stream.

I drink.

And drink.

And drink.

Water dribbles down my chin, trailing along my neck, but I don’t care. Whatever the hell Nick put in my coffee dried my mouth out worse than the Mojave.

When I’ve finally drunk my fill, I fumble a towel free of the rack and wipe the water from my face. Then I go back to the room, find a pair of shoes, and head for the stairs at the other end of the catwalk.

If he’s around, he must be in one of the other two rooms because the main level is empty. There’s a wide set of double sliding doors on the far side of the warehouse and a sturdy-looking metal bar secured with a heavy lock across them.

Beside me is a single door with a bright green sign overhead that reads EXIT. I glance up at the catwalk and step toward the door.

This one is locked. I study the deadbolt for a moment. It must lock from the outside. Which means either anyone outside can unlock it or Nick had a double-sided deadbolt put in. Dangerous in the event of an emergency. Perfect if you want to keep someone prisoner.

“You can have your own key when I’m confident you won’t try to escape.”

“Your trust in me is overwhelming,” I say flatly, glaring at the door. I turn around and scan the lower level. I missed the kitchen area spread out under the catwalk. He’s lounging against a counter, bottle of water next to his elbow.

“Preemptive strike.” His voice is just as flat. “You and I both know you wouldn’t have come willingly. It was either drug you or wrestle you to the ground and handcuff you, and there was still a risk you’d get away.” He flashes a sharp smile. “You’re wily like that.”

I give the door a hard thump with the side of my fist and stalk to the middle of the mats. I kick off my shoes and drop to the floor. “Your diplomatic skills need work. You have no way of knowing I wouldn’t have agreed with you.”

He pushes off the counter and strides across the room. My breath hitches as he drops to his knees in front of me. “If you expect me to apologize for what I’ve done, you’ll be waiting a fucking long time.” Lightning fast, his mouth is on mine, hot and firm and gone in the next blink. “You’re not doing this alone,” he says softly. “You were never supposed to.”

I will not scoot back. I will not be the first to retreat. I absolutely will not hit him, no matter how much he deserves it. “I was always supposed to do this alone. I just never told you.”

Nick settles on the mat. “Isaiah’s done more than murder your father, Cass. His actions have split the organization. He has to answer for that. That’s the reason why my father and my uncle agreed to this plan.”

I arch a brow. “You failed to mention the part where we were supposed to report to them what was happening.”

“Had you stuck with the original plan, there would have been no need. One day, hit ’em all, and it’d be over. Not easy to cover up, but doable with advance notice. We’ll come up with a new plan, and I highly recommend you cooperate.” He points behind me to the exercise area. “In the meantime, feel free to use whatever you want. If you want to go to the shooting range, let me know, and I’ll arrange it.”

Arrange it. I feel like I’m trapped in that old song—I can check out any time I like, but I can’t leave. “Why are you doing this?”

He gets to his feet, and for the first time, I see the anger behind his bland expression. “You abused my trust. You pushed too far, too hard, too fast. Right now, I’m the only one standing between you and the rest of the family. I’ll help you, but it will be done my way.”

I’d do it again, too, and that brings on a wave of guilt. Not that I’ve used him, but that I’d do it again. “How long are we staying here? Where is here?”

“When you stop acting like a selfish, immature girl, I’ll tell you.” He stands and heads for the door.

Shame burns through my veins long after he’s gone. Nick’s right. I’ve been selfish and immature, too focused on that hideous beast called revenge to care what my choices did to others.

The burn flares hotter as I realize I don’t care, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Flopping over onto my back, I stare at the ceiling high above. Does it make it better, knowing I’m ashamed of my actions, even though I wouldn’t change them?

No. Because the fact remains I wouldn’t do anything differently. Each kill has been a brick in a wall, separating the old Cass from the new. What Nick wants will tear that wall down, and if he succeeds, I will become a babbling, incoherent mass of grief and pain.

I roll onto my side and prop myself up on an elbow. Somehow, I’ll have to get out of here. The easy way is to allow Nick to help me take out Isaiah. The idea has its appeal. The only thing holding back the aching loneliness is that half-built wall, and if we do this together, I won’t be alone.

Physically, anyway.

The hard way involves finding the damn key he’s promised me, not getting caught, and most likely destroying whatever’s left of my relationship with Nick.

I wish revenge wasn’t such a greedy fucker.