The Girl Who Wasn't Page 6

  Someone yells. A door slams. Feet pound against concrete, the sound coming closer and closer until I feel someone standing directly over me. I blink but I can no longer see anything around the blackness.

  I hear another grunt—this time I know it’s not mine—and then the sound of someone gagging. It makes my stomach roil and I wonder if I’m capable of vomiting since it would require moving. I cannot make a single muscle work.

  I blink furiously and through the darkness I see faces. Blurred, angry, contorted. Bleeding.

  Then everything goes black.

  Chapter Five

  When I wake, I am shivering. I blink, each meeting of my eyelids sending a shooting pain through my skull. Fabric rustles as someone leans in and drapes my coat over my shoulders. A familiar face blurs into focus and I relax at the sight of the hard jaw, his forehead creased with worry.

  “Linc,” I say, putting all of my relief into that one word so that it comes out on a cry. I don’t remember much but the little that replays in my mind is full of terror and the certainty that whoever attacked me meant to kill. I whip my head side to side, trying to locate the danger my brain insists still lurks.

  “It’s all right,” Linc says, scooting closer and putting an arm around me. I go still under his touch. “He won’t hurt you ever again.” He pulls me into his chest and rubs my arms and for a moment, I allow myself to forget about how close I came to dying or how furious Titus will be. Instead, I enjoy the feel of Linc’s arms around me and the knowledge that he protected me. I am safe.

  His hands rub in an up and down motion over my arms and back. My blood races and warms to a boil. The chill is chased away, replaced by the sizzling awareness that he is touching me. Willingly. It is a sensation unlike anything I’ve experienced touching myself. I don’t want him to stop.

  I want him to touch me everywhere.

  “That’s better. You’ve stopped shaking,” he says a few moments later. I don’t realize until he’s released me that the only reason he held me was for warmth. I bite back my disappointment because there is no room for affection in this life.

  “What happened?” I ask, ducking to hide my disappointment.

  “I saved your ass, that’s what happened.” His concern melts into a heated glare. Accusing. And I remember the last thing he said to me before my failed escape attempt. “You have absolutely no concept of self-preservation, do you?”

  Exhaustion threatens, partly from the alcohol having receded and partly because I realize now how ill-begotten my plan was. “I wasn’t trying to get killed,” I say wearily.

  “Then what the hell were you doing going off alone? You had to know how dangerous it was.”

  Images assault me, broken, jagged, misshapen through my confused memory, of what happened after I hit my head. I am fairly certain I remember Linc with his hands wrapped around my attacker’s throat, removing them only when another member of my security team pried them off, all the while someone in the background insisting that once the victim’s face turns purple, the need for pressure is moot.

  “I … I was trying to …” I stop and start only to stop again. I cannot tell him the full truth—that I meant to run away from a life that doesn’t belong to me in the first place. “I wanted to get away, I guess.”

  He makes a sound that is a cross between a snort and a growl and throws up his hands. He doesn’t argue and I have the sense that he has accepted my recklessness as par for the course. I don’t like the idea that he thinks I’ve given up on surviving.

  I wait for him to look at me. When he does, I hold steady even though I want to look away. “I don’t want to die,” I say with conviction.

  He regards me for a long moment and then gives a slow nod. “All right. Then stop lying and making stupid decisions. You’re lucky I found you in time. Next time, I might not.”

  I nod to show I agree to his terms.

  “You have to let me do my job. Stay where I can see you, where I can reach you if something happens. At all times.”

  I hesitate. Agreeing to this means I will not attempt escape again. At least not on his watch. He has no idea what I’m giving up when I say, “Deal.”

  We fall into silence again but this time it is comfortable, almost friendly. I’m not sure how we came to be alone but I don’t ask just yet. I’m sure Gus and his men will arrive soon enough.

  I tip my head back against the bricks and close my eyes against the pounding that has receded to a dull thud against my temples. A breeze blows strands of hair across my face and all at once I am struck by a need to be upright, to fully soak in the wild freedom of standing in such an open space.

  I struggle to my feet slowly, ignoring Linc’s offered hand because I don’t want to feel the sting of him letting go again, and stare out at the twinkling lights of the city.

  The man who attacked me is nowhere in sight. I am tempted to ask what Linc has done with him, or how long I was unconscious, but I don’t want to break the spell of the view that makes me feel closer to freedom than I have in my entire existence.

  The air on the rooftop is cold and crisp as it blows across my cheeks. It is the best cure for my swirling thoughts. I love the wildness of being surrounded by so much sky. I breathe it in and pretend there is only this. No vodka in coat closets, no dinner parties with imported soundtracks, no murder attempts. Only open air and night sky forever.

  “You okay?” Linc asks.

  Instead of breaking the spell, Linc’s voice only amplifies it. I force my eyes open and look over at him. “I am now,” I assure him. I don’t add that it’s just as much for standing here as it is for him saving me. “Are you?”

  The lines along his forehead diminish. “That one was a little close,” he admits. His tone is off-hand but I can hear the tension underneath. I cannot help the image that replays itself in my mind. It is clearer now—Linc fighting, killing that man. The deadened expression he wore while doing it.

  “Why did they choose you to protect me?” I ask.

  He grimaces and stares straight ahead. “Because I’m the best.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  He is quiet for a long time before he says, “It’s not about good or bad. It means I’m not afraid to die.”

  “Then I’m all wrong for this.” The words are out before I can stop them. As if to stem the flow, I clap my hand over my mouth and stare at him.

  “What are you talking about?” he asks. The expression he wore that first day is back. Now I understand it: distrust. He already knows something. I have no idea how much, but I try to smooth it over.

  “I mean life … in the spotlight, the death threats. They scare me.”

  “Huh,” he grunts and I know he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t press it.

  We go back to staring out over the rooftops. We don’t speak again until his watch beeps some sort of alarm.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “We need to head back. Gus will be expecting us.”

  “They went home?” I ask, surprised to be left so alone.

  “They tried transporting the prisoner. The second guy. Titus wanted to talk to him.”

  “What do you mean tried?”

  “He died before they could get him there.” There is no emotion in his words when he says it, and I wonder how hard it is for him to turn it off. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to kill something—or someone—but it can’t be easy or without consequences. And Linc is not unfeeling. I saw it when he spoke of his brother.

  “What will they do with them? The men who attacked me?”

  He shrugs. “Background check them. Fingerprints, the whole nine yards. Titus has a lot of connections so he doesn’t have to go through the proper channels. He’ll turn their bodies over to the police once his private forensics team has learned all they can.”

  “He doesn’t think it ends with them?”

  “No, they were hired thugs. There’s got to be a master planner pulling the strings. That’s w
ho Titus wants.”

  I nod, knowing he is right. Titus wants the master planner so badly, he would risk leaving me here alone on this rooftop with Linc so that he can focus on the dead men being transported to him for investigation. I wonder what sort of reception I’ll receive when Titus has time to care about me again.

  “Do they—did you tell them I tried to leave?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He turns to me and scoffs. “How far do you think you would’ve gotten, anyway? No money, no car, nothing. Your dad has everyone in this city in his pocket. No way you could’ve disappeared. I get that you’re scared but running off alone is not the answer.”

  He’s right, of course, but I don’t say it. I’m too busy remembering the one thing that should’ve stopped me from the insanity of escape in the first place. Money, cars, connections—none of it would’ve mattered. I am a product. Equipped with GPS tracking and a kill switch embedded directly into my body. The minute I left this rooftop, Titus would’ve either retrieved me or terminated me. How could I have forgotten?

  I decide then and there not to drink vodka ever again. I go back to staring out at the rooftops. It’s not nearly as relaxing anymore, not with thoughts of dead men and GPS trackers and Titus crowding in. I know Linc is waiting on me to start for home, but I am desperate for just one more moment.

  “They know I didn’t die,” I say finally.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  I can tell by his expression he is trying to make a joke. It falls flat. I don’t smile. “Depends on who you ask.”

  His forehead creases in confusion but before he can ask, the communicator on his watch beeps again. “Damn,” he mutters.

  He shuts it off and then looks at me for so long my pulse accelerates. “Are you okay now?” he asks, and I can tell he means it because it feels like he’s looking so much deeper than at my outsides.

  “I am,” I answer because in this moment, it is true.

  He smiles. It’s small and lopsided, like his mouth is unsure if that’s really what it’s being told to do, and I love the way it looks on him. Something inside me cracks and reseals.

  “Good. Let’s get out of here.” He turns toward the exit and offers me his hand. When I take it, it’s warm, comforting. It reminds me that he is the only person on my side, the only one actually trying to prevent my death.

  I shiver, comfort and fear an equal mix.

  “You cold?” he asks.

  His voice is rough and close. Our chests are only inches apart. He is looking down at me with quiet concern and I shiver again—this time for an entirely different reason.

  “No,” I whisper.

  The silence hangs like a sharp edge between us. I feel as if at any moment, we’ll turn a corner and rush headlong into … something. I don’t know what. So I stand there, not breathing, waiting. Finally, he blinks and the sharpness rounds out into nothing. I feel relieved and crushed all at once.

  “We better go,” he says, dropping my hand.

  He leads me to the access door and down the stairs without another word. We catch the elevator on the tenth floor, avoiding whatever is left of the party. I’m glad for that. Despite my assurances, my head is pounding now that I’m moving.

  When we make it outside, he turns to me, apologetically. “The others took the car. All I have to get you home is my motorcycle. Is that okay?”

  I falter in my step. “It’s fine.”

  His head tilts. “Have you ever ridden one?”

  I am tempted to say that I’ve only barely ridden in cars, much less a motorcycle, but I don’t. “No,” I say simply.

  He stops in front of a black motorcycle that’s all hard angles and quiet muscle and hands me a helmet he unstraps from the handlebars. “Put this on.”

  I fumble with it for a moment before he takes over, moving my fingers aside and nimbly working the snaps into place. He takes off his jacket and holds it out for me to slip into.

  “I can’t. It’s yours,” I say. “Besides, I have mine.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not going to be enough to keep you warm once we get moving. Trust me.” We both look down at my mostly bare legs. “You’ll have to hike your dress up to swing a leg over. Just … press close to me.”

  I pretend the words don’t send a hungry shiver through me. “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I slip one arm, then another, into sleeves that are too long, and zip it up. It feels heavy and bulky around my shoulders, but I assume the padding is for safety and I don’t complain. My belly is jumping from anticipation and fear as I eye the machine next to us. There’s something sensuous about it—like whispered danger.

  “The main thing to know is how to turn. You have to lean into it and let the bike do the rest. If you’re not sure, press against me and move when I move. Got it?”

  I don’t really, but I nod anyway.

  “Just do what I do,” he adds.

  He helps me into his gloves, also too big, and then we’re ready. He swings a leg over and knocks the kickstand back in a practiced move.

  I stand there, eyeing all of the parts, and trying to figure out the best way to get on behind him without falling over—or revealing any more of me in this too-short dress. He turns the key and the bike revs to life underneath him. He looks over and though I can’t see his expression behind his helmet, it feels serious. There is a quiet energy between us.

  “Get on,” he says, voice muffled. He holds his hand out and I take it tentatively, trying to figure out where to step and where to grab as I slide in behind him. I ball my skirt into my fist and use the other to grab his shoulder.

  He waits a beat while I orient myself and then the engine revs. The entire machine shakes with soft, swift vibrations. Goose bumps spread from my thighs to my knees.

  I wrap my arms softly around his midsection, unsure, feeling overly forward if I grab on too tightly.

  “You’re going to want to hang on,” he says as if reading my thoughts. The inside of my helmet heats as my cheeks burn. I’m glad he can’t see my face. “Ready?”

  I tighten my grip. “I think so.” My wavering voice makes me sound like a liar. “Is this thing safe?” I can’t help but add. He shakes with laughter and we ease forward.

  The bike is a life of its own underneath me, humming and vibrating, and then he punches the gas and it’s smooth and sleek—and fast. The pavement is rushing by and the wind is flapping the edges of my dress and I no longer care how tightly I should be holding on. I curl my shoulders forward so that my chest is curved to his back.

  Brisk wind blows over my legs, turning sharper as we accelerate, but the cold doesn’t register over the thrill of it. I want to go faster. Linc weaves in and out of traffic, and every turn pulls me closer to his back.

  A dog runs out ahead of us. Linc swerves to avoid the animal, and I scream. Linc moves his left hand to my thigh, wordlessly assuring me that he’s done this a thousand times. When his hand doesn't leave my skin, any chill I felt vanishes.

  Suddenly, I’m hot, warmed from the inside out. My face flushes inside my helmet. A wave of heat threads its way through me, ending between my legs in a slow burn.

  The speed is exhilarating. The fear and excitement are almost too big to feel at the same time. Adrenaline pumps into me, making room for both. Behind the anonymity of my helmet, I am grinning. I cannot stop. I have the urge to throw my hands out and lean my head back and let the wind roll over me in a moment of perfect ecstasy. Then we hit a bend in the road, and Linc’s hand moves back to the handlebars. I feel him leaning and think better of letting go. I lean with him, matching my shoulder dip to his. The motorcycle tips effortlessly and then rights itself again as the road straightens. It’s pure magic.

  The speedometer tips eighty and I’m not sure I wouldn’t blow away if I let go. It’s a thrill; death is rushing by me six inches from my toes with nothing separating me from it except my grip on
Linc’s midsection. I tighten my arms and grin wider.

  The turns are scariest, the way we lean and the speeds with which we take them. Each time, we come closer to getting parallel with the pavement. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. I squeeze Linc’s ribs, giving away the delicious anxiety that grips me so hard I’m gasping in my helmet. I don’t think he can hear my intake of breath or little cries of panic, but I’m not certain.

  Ahead of us, open road stretches, and Linc’s hand wanders back to my thigh. I try to understand his reason because I know he wouldn’t touch me without one. But he rests it there almost lazily, his fingertips dancing with the wind over my skin. Goose bumps rise from my hip to ankle. I shiver.

  The heat returns, snaking a trail as it curls toward my stomach. It settles in a tight ball beneath my belly button. My skin feels pulled tight against my muscles. Something—I don’t know what—desperately wants to be released.

  I shift on the narrow seat, doing all I can to shut it out, but the motion only serves to agitate the storm inside me. My body likes the friction of my movements, but I pause, waiting to see if Linc notices. He doesn’t move, nor does he remove his hand from my leg.

  He is undoubtedly completely unaware of what he is doing to me.

  And I don't want him to stop.

  I imagine his hands on my legs with no fabric to deter their wandering. I imagine him pulling to the side of the road, dismounting. Swinging my legs around so they’re wrapped around his waist instead of this narrow seat. His fingers drifting higher up the inside of my thigh, underneath the thin fabric of my panties. Slowly sliding his finger into the wet heat he’d find there.

  I am flushed with a familiar feeling as I remember the stolen moments in Twig City when I would run my hands over my body while the rest of them slept. But never to this extent. Never with this sort of torment.