Joshua North, apparently.
I seriously doubt Landon is paying North Security a single cent.
The idea makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like owing anyone anything. Because you never know when they’ll call in the favors. You never know what they’ll be. I learned that lesson young.
What will Joshua expect me to owe him? Nothing good.
The black SUV slows down in an alley lined with large bungalows. Heavy hydrangeas lean over a tall concrete wall. A pink building stands behind it, its black iron balcony quintessentially New Orleans. A row of black windows reflects the city without giving a glimpse of what’s inside. I study the different apartments, wondering which one would give the best tactical advantage. Wondering what it would be like to live life as Joshua North, always aware of the threats around him. “Which one is his?”
Dark eyes in the rearview mirror. “The whole building.”
The whole building. Jesus. Something like this probably costs millions of dollars. Since when did he get that rich? Not through selling illegal weapons from the US Army. I suppose there’s plenty of money being the good guy, too. Being the hero. He’d hate to be called that, but it’s the truth.
I step into the building with a nervous flutter in my stomach. There are a million reasons why Josh and I will never be together. I knew them already. Now there’s one more—the absolute grandeur of this old-fashioned mansion, one of the few that hasn’t been chopped into tiny apartments. We belong to different worlds. His is sharp enough to cut me. Mine is already in pieces.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The musical Oliver!, based on Dickens’s novel, has been performed in more than 20 languages, including Basque, Faroese, and Icelandic. Musicians who have played the part of the Artful Dodger include Phil Collins and Davy Jones of the Monkees.
Josh, present time
Bethany appears at my door as a shadow. That’s all it takes to make my cock wake the fuck up, that hint of her against the frosted security glass of my front door. The porch light makes her shadow look carved, all hard edges. But when I open the door, she’s transformed back into herself. There is a certain toughness about her that reminds me in a vague way of her brother.
She lifts her chin. A challenge. I thought I saw a flash of vulnerability there, as if maybe she’s w
orried about her welcome, but I must have imagined it.
And yet…she’s standing on my doorstep.
I scan behind the both of them for any sign someone else has breached the gate. There are none. Noah’s face stands out against the black SUV, the curt nod visible even from here.
Bethany takes a single step across the threshold. The scent of lotion reaches out and lodges deep in my lungs. It pulls hard enough to tear. I ignore it. Shut the door behind her. Flip the lock. The deadbolt, in comparison to the rest of my personal security system, is just for show. Like the way I’m giving her a stoic expression. The real walls, they’re deep where no one can see. Where she’ll never breach them.
What is the purpose of denial?
Survival. That’s the purpose.
Bethany watches me, dark eyes alive in the low, warm light of my entryway. “You sent Noah to pick me up instead of coming yourself?”
“I took a calculated risk.” I calculate another form of risk and take a step back to put some space between us. Nobody, least of all Bethany, needs to know how much I want to take two steps forward. Surround her. Consume her. No—not that.
That raw scrape burrows into my gut. Hunger.
She’s got a hand on her hip. She’s pissed, which I shouldn’t find so hot. “A pretty bold move, thinking I’d go along with this if it was Noah and not you.”
The smirk that flashes across my face is mostly a cover for the way her voice makes me feel. “It worked, didn’t it? You’re here.”
“For now.” It seems to take her some effort to tear her eyes away from mine. She examines the gleaming scarred wood and polished brass with a look of apprehension, as if I’d decorated the place with guns and bombs instead. Those beautiful brown eyes meet mine again. They’re darker this time. Bethany drops her shoulders a fraction of an inch. “Where do you expect me to sleep? If I stay here?”
I’m seized by the powerful urge to take her hand in mine and trace the line of her palm. See? That lifeline is already longer, you pretty little fool. I’m keeping you alive. Instead I gesture toward the grand staircase. “Upstairs.”
She follows me up each step, footfalls so soft I can barely hear them. My vision sharpens as we reach the top landing. I try not to make the baseline assumption that my home is safe. That’s the kind of complacency that will get you killed. But there’s nothing in the hall to suggest that anything is out of the ordinary.
Only Bethany.
I lead her toward the back of the house and into the master suite. The sitting area is quiet, peaceful. A fire burns in the grate. I have it low enough so the temperature remains comfortable. A set of wide double doors stands open, revealing a bed with white sheets and a fluffy white bedspread.
“This is nice,” Bethany says on an exhale that almost, almost, becomes a sigh.