Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

She’s rubbing my nape. I feel the covers pulled over my hips…and then my shoulders.

“I know,” she says, curling around me. Her mouth is in my hair. Somewhere, I hear her say, “I love you.”30LucaI wake to a ringing phone. I’m in a dark room, startled—but there’s something warm and soft against me: rosa.

A little rush of gladness hits me as I fumble to answer. My brother’s name is on the screen—along with 4:09 a.m.

“Soren?” My heart’s still pounding from the sudden waking. “What’s the matter?”

“You gotta meet me so we can talk. Aren’s working with the FBI, like in an active way. Last time we did the exchange—that time you oversaw it—he got the whole thing. They have lots of shit on us now, but especially Alesso and you.”

My stomach does a slow roll. “Okay. Have you hacked any of their desktops? See if they’re taking it seriously?”

“Luca—later.” I squeeze my eyes shut as Elise stirs beside me. “Sorry,” I rasp. God, I must be really tired. Number one rule of phones is that you only use them to set up a meeting. “Where do you want to meet?” I ask him.

He says he’ll pick a place and text me, and when I end the call and open my eyes, I find Elise sitting beside me, looking concerned.

“Did something happen?” Her too-round eyes shine in the dark room.

“I’m okay.”

“Was that your brother? I could hear—you sounded concerned.”

“Nothing for you to worry over, rosa.”

“Yes it is. Of course it is. Everything that matters to you matters to me now.”

I shake my head, giving her shoulder a small squeeze before getting off the bed. “I don’t want you compromising yourself, rosa. Especially now.” She looks like she’s going to get up, too, so I lie back down with her. “You want to stay while I run out? I can come back.”

“I can go home, too,” she murmurs. “If that’s easier for you.”

“Stay and sleep. If I’m not back in time for when you want to go, just call a black car.” I run my hand back through my hair. “I might be back fast, though. I’m gonna try to have my brother meet me somewhere nearby.”* * *EliseHe brushes a kiss over my forehead, gives me a tired smile, and moves toward the bedroom door. When he reaches the door frame, he turns back around, wide-eyed as he walks back over to me.

“One more time,” he rasps, hugging me with one arm as his free hand cradles my bump. “Bye to both of you” he whispers.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look as tired as he does leaving the apartment. Once he’s gone, I stand there in the kitchen/living area for a long moment. Then I drift back into the lone bedroom, looking at the medicine bottles on the dresser: all sleep meds. I wonder what the story is there, but I know the gist of it. He pretty much said he has PTSD-related sleep trouble.

Poor Luca.

I can’t resist looking around the bedroom a bit more before I lie back down. Inside the night stand drawer, I find a notebook filled with some kind of logistical information. Scrawled inside is the address 202 Richards Street. The handwriting doesn’t look like his. It’s big and loopy.

I tell myself it would be an invasion of his privacy to look in the dresser drawers…but I can’t resist. I’m rewarded—punished?—almost instantly. The top drawer is filled with women’s clothes. They’re new clothes. Packs of underwear, bras in various sizes still bearing tags, shirts and shorts and jeans.

Is this a house where he meets women? He said he’s never had anyone in the tub at his house. What if that’s because he only ever brings them here?

There’s no way he sleeps with prostitutes on a regular basis…right? What if that’s how he knew he wouldn’t transfer anything to me? Do sex workers have to show their test results or something like that?

Using my phone, I look up the owner of this apartment, which turns out to be an LLC called The Rose Garden. I kind of feel like leaving, but I’m so sleepy—and the truth is, I want to see him again. The truth is I trust him, even if it’s senseless. But I don’t think it is.

I get a nap on the soft, cotton sheets, and when I open my eyes, he’s in the doorway looking tired and rumpled in the same black jeans, boots, and long-sleeved T-shirt he had on last time I saw him.

I push up on one elbow, searching his face with my blurry eyes. “How was it? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” He glances back into the living area. “I’m getting a glass of water. You want some?”

“Sure.”

He brings us both water, but instead of sitting by me, he sits at the edge of the bed, rolling his left shoulder and staring at the TV, which is off. When he turns to me, he lifts his brows, but he looks tense and solemn.