Blood collected beneath them and filled the grout between the tiles. The stench of sewage and copper pervaded the air. His stomach was leaking, leaking…so much blood. Christ, it wouldn’t stop.
She shoved a hand under his jacket, bumped into the weight of his phone in the inner pocket. Oh, thank God. She wrapped trembling fingers around it.
“Bad idea, Charlee.” The Craig’s boot shot out. A direct line with her head. Sharp pain stole her vision and darkness stole the pain.
4
The thrum in Charlee’s head was a small thing compared to the agony crushing her heart. Oh God, Noah. She rubbed her eyes, her hands stiff with blood, though she was surprised to find them unbound.
Flashes of light passed the car window. The crunch of tires on neglected pavement vibrated the leather seat beneath her. The wide bench stretched across the black interior, a standard feature of all the SUVs in Roy’s fleet.
She’d never successfully escaped one of his vehicles. The tinted bulletproof glass didn’t roll down. The doors never opened from the inside. And they traveled in a procession of three. She would be in the center one.
An unfamiliar Craig drove. The other occupant—the Craig from her shop—tilted his head. With a phone pinched between chin and shoulder, he shook a water bottle with one hand. “Yes, sir.” His other hand gripped her jaw, turning it. “She’s just waking…I understand.” He dropped the phone in a breast pocket and held out the bottle.
“I’m not thirsty.” Not for Valium, Xanax, Ambien, or whatever sedative he was offering.
“We can do this the nice way or the Salvador way.” The manner in which he whispered his name flared old wounds, surfacing memories of the flex of fingers, the whistle of parting air, and the crack of her jaw beneath his fist. The Salvador way.
She swallowed. “What’s in the water, Craig?”
“Don’t be ‘Craig’ing me, bitch. I’m not your father.”
Craig Grosky was the first and the worst in a long line of Craigs. She glared at the ear of the Craig beside her, the one missing the lobe. Last time he called her a bitch, Roy relieved him of that bit of flesh.
He glared back. “Rohypnol keeps you out of trouble.”
Roofies. Roy wasn’t taking chances. “Is Noah alive?”
The intensity in his gaze agitated. “If you want to live, you will not let Mr. Oxford hear you utter that name.”
If there were a chance he survived the wound, reminding Roy and the Craig of that possibility was counterproductive. Anything could’ve happened after she lost consciousness. Perhaps Noah’s gun was at the small of his back. Maybe the Craig tossed her over his shoulder and ran out with a volley of Noah’s bullets at his heels. She grasped onto that thought, wrapped it around her, and nested into it. Then she grabbed the water, a promise to behave while she scrambled for options. “Where are we going?”
“Airport. We’ll be at the tower when you wake.”
Roy’s private jet. Roy’s tower penthouse. Back to San Francisco.
Fear, a living tangible thing, erupted in her stomach, grew in strength and size, and boiled through her throat. She folded at the waist and heaved. Bile splashed the floorboard, her sandals, and the door.
“What the fuck? You got that shit on my shoes.” He yanked a Taser out of his pocket. “This or the water. Choose now or I’ll choose for you.”
Her stomach plunged. He’d choose both and would probably do so with a hard-on. She leaned back, wiped her mouth, and came to grips with her destination in three long, drug-laced gulps.
5
It had only been two hours since Jay watched Charlee walk away. Two hours wandering the empty St. Louis streets only served to echo his loneliness. What if it took too long to become the man she deserved? What if she got pregnant or married in that time?
A stab of pain shafted through his heart, and he stumbled on the sidewalk in front of Lewey’s Uptown Bar. When would he be able to see her again?
Fuck. He was going to be on the road for the next couple months. He could call the shop, couldn’t he? He could keep in contact with her under the guise of coordinating more tattoo work.
He pushed through the front door of the bar. Since his escape from the van earlier in the evening, the music had deteriorated into a repetitive din of mechanicalistic effects and distorted vocal synthesizers. He scanned the crowd for his bandmates and found them gyrating in a circle of women on the dance floor in front of the stage.
How could they stomach the noise banging from the speakers? The Burn could produce more rhythm pounding a hammer on a cymbal.
He weaved through the crush of half-naked, sweaty bodies, dodging the sweep of arms and swaying hips. Too many goddamned people. The sudden tightness in his chest spread to his neck and locked his jaw.