Storm (Sex and Bullets 1)

“Go in,” he yells over his shoulder, and I don’t need to be told twice.

The sooner we find what we’re looking for, the sooner we can leave, and fuck, maybe my arm is broken after all. Moving it hurts so bad it makes my eyes water. I let it hang by my side, keeping the other around Raylin, and limp toward the house.

There’s bright yellow police tape on the windows and the door, which is half-smashed from gun rounds. Christ. Was it only—what? Two days ago, that we were almost shot to death here? She shivers, pressing her face to my shoulder, and I drop a kiss on her head, glad to pretend she’s the only one having trouble dealing with all this.

Taking a bracing breath, I release Raylin long enough to fish the keys out of my pant pocket, and she takes it and unlocks.

This is it. This is where we see if my theory, conceived in a moment of shock, might be valid. See whether my uncle left me something here, a clue, or not. Whether there’s a fucking end to the madness, or if I’ll have to keep on running and dodging until the next bullet ends me.

Raylin has her arm around my hips, and I lean on her rather heavily, so I try to pull back. She won’t let me and I give me. Damn leg hurts, and it’s only a graze. My arm is the one killing me, but I keep that little fact to myself.

She leads the way, and I force down the memories of me and her in these rooms—not the shooting, this time, but the good ones where I kissed her, where I moved inside of her, where we existed inside a bubble and things were simple.

But simple doesn’t last, and I should know. Maybe nothing does.

The office is dusty and littered with old papers, yellowed and half-eaten by termites. I should bring a specialist to make sure the wood isn’t eaten away, and a cleaning crew, and…

And then we could stay here. At the beach. Just me and her. Except now the paparazzi know where to find me, where to find us. Shit…

We walk around the huge mahogany desk with its carved legs and details, and I pull the small key from my pocket. I spent a month here, and I never imagined an answer might be waiting for me in my uncle’s office. I’d been inside, of course. I’d browsed the papers and folders left. There was nothing of interest. Everything important was at the company, or in the hands of his lawyers.

Or so I thought.

“It’s this one.” Raylin jiggles one of the drawers. Locked. “Wanna do it?”

I drop with relief into the chair, stretching my aching leg, and try the key. It fits into the lock perfectly. It turns. The drawer slides open.

Nothing. The drawer is empty.

“Fuck.” I slam my fist on the desk and my hurt arm gives a sympathetic twinge. “Nothing here.”

And here I was thinking I’d finally know. Understand. Put a stop to it. That it would all finally make sense.

I curl my fist on the warm wood. It’s so stuffy in here. Not enough air. I lean back, fighting with despair.

“Let me see,” Raylin says, bending over me, reaching into the drawer. “Maybe he hid it. Like in the movies, you know?”

“Seriously? I doubt uncle Tony ever watched movies. He was far too busy and uptight for that.”

She draws her hand out. “Can’t reach far inside.”

Her pretty mouth turns down in disappointment, so against all logic, I put my hand back inside the drawer, searching for God knows what…

… and it brushes against something stuck to the top. Paper. I turn my hand, tug at it, and pull it out.

Another envelope.

There’s a rushing in my ears. The envelope is sealed—in wax, like we’re in the Middle Ages or something—and the seal is what stops my breath.

It’s a phoenix, rising from the flames.

RAYLIN

I lean against the massive desk, my lungs locking. No frigging way. I know I insisted he’d find something, but I didn’t really believe it, and his reaction…

His forefinger strokes over the red seal. It looks like… a bird.

A phoenix. Damn. I guess we really did find something that could be important. This isn’t some scrap paper left there by mistake.