“And I have to change,” I add, grabbing jeans and a T-shirt from the stack of clean clothes on the shelf. I shove them into my messenger bag. It’s not that strange to bring a bag into a shared restroom. I keep my shampoo and bodywash in a caddy for easy transport. Anything left on the thin shower shelf ends up taken anyway. So Josh has no reason to object when I open the door to my apartment and cross the small hall to the bathroom, still fully dressed in coat and shoes.
I close the door behind me, staring blindly at the window that’s perpetually cracked open. Large enough for a body to fit through. Barely. I’ll make it work. After I pee, because I really do have to go. I try not to think about how long Josh will wait for me before he realizes I’m gone.
You’re coming even if I have to carry you out.
Joshua North isn’t a man who makes idle threats. I figured that out a long time ago. As tempting as it is to imagine that he represents safety, I know better. There’s no safety—not in the tiny Toulouse or the rebuilt New Orleans. Not in the whole world. There’s no safety, but I’m after something else. Redemption.
The chance to breathe without this terrible weight on my chest.
I change my clothes without much fanfare. My muscles have tightened up because I didn’t do my usual cooldown stretching routine, but there’s no time for that. Instead I reach up, high enough that my fingertips brush the popcorn-textured ceiling. That will have to be good enough. Next I crank the metal handle until the window’s as wide as it can get.
This is basic acrobatics. Pretend these are bars in a gym. This is part of a dance routine.
I hook my fingertips over the tile edge and pull. Then I’m pushing through the space the same way someone dives into water, arms first, holding my breath. The textured glass presses against my breasts. I wriggle against it harder and gain an inch. Then two. It’s easier through my waist, but my hips are the hard part. No amount of sucking in my breath will make them smaller. In the end there’s a heavy pain through my side. Enough that I’ll be bruised come tomorrow.
There’s a two-story drop onto the awning below. Another fifteen feet to the floor. You’re an acrobat. Be light and quick and strong. The voice sounds like my grandmother, with her smoker’s rasp and thick accent. I study the jumps. One wrong move and I break my arm. Or worse.
My heartbeat slows. My focus narrows. It’s the exact same thing that happens when I’m about to perform. It’s the same thing that happens when you see Joshua North. That one doesn’t sound like my grandmother. It sounds like me.
I leap from the window, and I know the angle’s right, I feel it from the moment my foot leaves the brick—until my messenger bag catches on the window’s ledge. I’m yanked back. Not light or quick or strong. My body lands hard against the building. Thud. Then I’m slipping and sliding down the awning. There’s the sound of a tear. Then I land hard on the ground. Not my most graceful maneuver, but not bad considering I’m holding an uneven weight.
Without pausing to see if anyone saw me, I set off briskly in the direction of the train. Once I make it on, I can go anywhere. Such as the stately brownstone where Marlena lives. The good news is that it isn’t listed under her name. Which means Josh won’t be able to find me there.
I only hope Scott Castle doesn’t read too much into my late night arrival.
A threesome is really not in the cards.
Josh, present time
I grew up in a town too small to appear on most maps. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Which means everyone knew that the North boys were wild animals. The single-wide that groaned every time a brisk wind ran through, the field thick with burs and trash—that was our forest. We ran and fought and grew like goddamn weeds. Didn’t matter that there was
hardly ever food in the pantry. We turned big and strong anyway.
My brother left to join the army as soon as he could. I stuck around as long as legally required until I could do the same. When I took the entrance exam at the high school recruitment office, they put me into a special program. Officially the title on my pay stub says Information Analyst. I’m told there’s even a cubicle somewhere in an office building with my name on it. The more correct name for what I do is operative. I go to whatever country good old Uncle Sam wants me to go. I find out whatever he wants me to find. Which means it doesn’t take me very long to find Scott Castle’s love nest.
I’m waiting outside when the dawn breaks across the steeples and gates that make up NOLA’s horizon. A century of superstition and voodoo hasn’t kept the city safe. There’ve been outbreaks and fires and floods. It’s beautiful even in its wounded state.
Much like the woman who emerges from the front door.
My phone vibrates. “North.”
Liam’s on the other end of the line. “Found her?”
“She won’t be happy to see me.”
“Don’t fuck it up.” My brother’s become way too fucking confident after making things work with the woman he loves. As if he didn’t fuck things up with her a million times. He doesn’t deserve Samantha any more than I deserve Bethany, but that’s the thing about women—they want what’s not good for them. It’s the only reason the human race has perpetuated this long.
The door opens, and two women step out. Marlena has a mass of strawberry-blonde curls that catch on the wind. In contrast Bethany has smoothed her dark hair back into a bun. She always looks so put together. I wonder if she knows it makes me want to mess her up.
Bethany spots me first. I notice the break in her stride even though she keeps walking. I sling myself into step beside them, startling a cry from Marlena. Her eyes widen as she takes me in. What must I look like? I’ve had no sleep, but I could go for another eight hours before needing a break. That comes from the military. I’m wearing a black T-shirt and tactical pants. I don’t go for the suits that Liam and the other close security people have to wear, not if I can help it.
“You know what?” Marlena says, a sly expression on her elfin face. “I don’t think I’m actually in the mood to walk. I’ll take the Bentley. Meet you there, Bethany.”
Bethany shoots daggers at her with her eyes but stays on the sidewalk with me as her friend leaves. “You scared her off,” she tells me, accusatory.
“She wants to play matchmaker.” I hold up a white bag with a green stamp.
Her hands go to her hips. “A peace offering?”