Storm (Sex and Bullets 1)

We come to a halt in front of a shiny skyscraper, its top lost in the clouds. Jordan Enterprises, proclaims the huge silver sign spanning a good chunk of the façade.

Storm is on the phone, and I try not to eavesdrop, but something in his clipped answers makes me turn back toward him.

His face is pale. Sweat is beading on his brow and his eyes are wide and unseeing. His fingers are clenched so hard around the cell the plastic case is creaking.

“Storm.” I tug at the cell but can’t free it from his grip. “What happened?”

“Rook,” he breathes. “The limo lost control. The fucking brakes didn’t work.”

Oh my God. “And? Tell me.” My hand curls around his. “They can’t have been going fast. They were only crossing the town. Storm—”

“They hit a light post. The driver died on impact. They’ve taken Rook to the hospital.” He finally stirs, his gaze focusing. He turns to the driver, a burly, bearded guy in a suit. “Need to get there right the fuck now. Johns Hopkins Hospital. Drive.”

The guy doesn’t even blink. He turns back into the traffic and does as he’s told.

I stare at Storm—no, at Troy Jordan. He may say Troy is a ghost, but he’s right there, below the bad boy layer, a core of steel, a man who was born and raised to lead and do things his way.

Okay, maybe he isn’t so different from Storm after all. Just more used to getting what he sets out to get.

His big hand opens, engulfing mine, and he holds on to me as we drive through the busy

streets. His face is still too pale, and I lean into him.

He lets go only to wrap his arm around me. He likes holding me, and when he looks down at me and I cup his jaw, he makes a strangled sound and scoops me up in his lap.

“I did this to him,” he rasps in my hair, both arms around me, crushing me to him. “I should have insisted. It was me they wanted.”

Oh God, he’s right. Has to be. Too many coincidences. “Not your fault,” I whisper. “He’s a grown man. He made his own decision.”

“He thought it was a joke. That I was spewing crazy.” His breath catches. “I fucking wish I was. But Rook has always had my back. He’s the oldest.”

“Oldest?”

“Hawk is in the middle, twenty-one like me but a few months older. Rook is twenty-three. He was always our big brother, our protector. He was…” A tremor goes through him. “The tattoos were his idea. The roses. Sub rosa, said the Romans. What you say under the roses remains a secret. We told our secrets to each other and got the ink, and now he’s—”

“Shh.” I press myself to him. His skin is cold, and I wind my arms around him, trying to warm him up. “Everything will be okay.” Says the one who’s wanted by the Chinese mafia. Jesus. “Let’s see how he is first. He’s not dead. We have to hope for the best.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” His breath is warm on top of my head. “We have secrets. I have secrets. You told me everything, but I haven’t. Not yet.”

“Told you trust takes time,” I whisper.

“I do trust you, dammit.” He sighs. “I only hoped you’d never have to get involved in this shit.”

“It’s okay.” It’s time to stop running and hiding. So I look up at him and smile. “I’ll take a risk on you.”

Chapter Sixteen

STORM

By the time we reach the hospital, I’ve gotten myself mostly under control. My hands aren’t trembling anymore, but my chest still feels crushed.

I called Rook an asshole. Told him off. Threw him out. When all he was trying to do was look out for me, like every time.

Releasing Raylin, I fumble with the car door and throw it open before the driver reaches my side to open it for me. Cool air rushes in, and I draw deep breaths to clear the fuzziness in my head.

I step out, and Raylin is already hurrying around the car to reach me. Taking her hand, I walk with her to the emergencies entrance.

Blood. Gore. Death. Blurry memories of twisted bodies, bones sticking out of mangled flesh, their eyes open, faces twisted in a grimace of violence and death.