Capture Me Slowly (Shattered 3)

“I need money now.” I quickened my strides because, paranoia or not, the steps were getting closer. “And Adam can’t know. Is there anything you can do?”

If my brother found out I was tapping into my trust, he’d ask questions. Like why. Not that he’d ever deny me, he was an amazing brother that way. Adopted or otherwise.

Taking advantage of him was something I’d never do. He was the reason I was able to get off of the streets in the first place and go to college. The reason I built a life. A damn good one until now. Almost good enough to block out my first seventeen years.

When I’d left Chicago, I’d given up my full-time job and living in New York off a salary based around craigslist was tough. Not that my sacrifices had mattered. Mase had found me anyway. I spotted him a few weeks ago when I was coming off the subway and the chase began once more. Which was why I had to move. Again. Just for a few weeks, until the hearing.

Castor James was up for parole at the end of the month. The only thing between him and an open door was my testimony — testimony that Castor and his brother would stop at nothing to ensure never be given.

Even if it meant using my family against me.

“Are you all right, Miss Wade?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to get some money for a trip.” Sort of the truth. I didn’t know where I was going, but as long as it was away from my family and friends, that was good enough.

“Okay,” Ben said in a chipper tone. “Maybe you’d like to talk to your brother, then?”

I clenched my teeth and tried to breathe. I couldn’t tell Adam about this. Because I knew exactly what he’d do if he found out, he’d try to help. And that would put everything he’d built — his new life, his new family — at risk. All because of my past mistakes. No.

“Is there any way to get the money? Just between you and me? Simple transfer?”

I heard him sigh. “If you give me a couple days I can — ”

“I don’t have a couple days.” I cupped the phone harder and, once again, heard the boots scraping against wet concrete. They were definitely real — and definitely drawing closer.

I could see the lights of Times Square. Only one more block in the distance. Then I could get out of this dark alley and be near people.

“Let me see what I can do,” Ben said finally.

“Thank you so much.” A momentary rush of relief gave my legs the extra dose of speed they needed. “Let’s meet at the Shriners Club near your office tomorrow night. Ten o’clock.”

“I can’t promise anything, Miss Wade, but I’ll see you there.”

“Thanks.”

I hung up the phone and jammed it in my pocket. I didn’t look behind me. I kicked it into high gear and ran.

Keeping my eyes focused on the lights, on the people passing by but just out of reach. I charged forward. Launching myself into the crowd, I came into the center of Times Square.

Once I was engulfed by people, I turned to look back at the alley I’d just fled and saw . . .

A breath jogged from my lungs and my knees went weak with relief. It wasn’t Mase. It was some skinny hipster guy. I needed to get a grip. Every time I heard a weird noise or footsteps in the distance, I thought it was him. I knew he was here, getting closer to finding me, but he hadn’t made contact yet —

“Ow!” I smacked right into a wall of person smelling like cigarettes and Jack Daniels. “Watch where you’re going,” I grumbled and gripped my satchel.

“I’m sorry, I must not have seen you there, Emma.”

My eyes snapped up and I froze, terror-stricken.

“Mase.” My throat instantly closed. He went to grab my arm and I jerked back and took off running.

Weaving through the crowd of tourists and people selling Broadway tickets, I went as fast as I could, desperately searching for a safe place. Somewhere I could duck into, lay low for the night.

The footsteps clapped behind me, closing in. I ran faster, knowing he was coming right for me.

No place familiar was safe. Not now. Home wasn’t an option, not until I knew Mase couldn’t follow me back to the apartment. I had lost him once in the subway crowd a few weeks ago. I didn’t know how much headway he’d made regarding my whereabouts since then, but I couldn’t risk him finding out the last little details of where I lived.

If there was one thing I’d learned living on the streets, it was knowing when to sleep alone and knowing when to partner up.

Time to partner up.

Breathing hard, running a crosswalk against the light and almost getting taken out by a honking cab, I continued to scan the street and found my answer.

The Strauss Hotel.

Megan’s new husband, Preston Strauss, owned the posh hotel. They were still on their honeymoon, but I knew a man who was staying there: Rhys Striker.

At least, I hoped he was still there. It had been a couple weeks since I had seen him at Megan and Preston’s wedding. And even a few more weeks since I had first met him at a gala thrown by his company. The event itself wouldn’t have been that memorable except for Rhys. Tall, muscled and draped in a tux, he walked in with these searing gray eyes that did weird things to my breathing whenever he zeroed them in on me.

Then there was the kiss.

This one, amazing, panty-melting-kiss.

Which shouldn’t be going through my mind at the moment, but it was. Maybe if I had taken Rhys up on his offer, things would be different today. Maybe not. But he had been a gentleman, asked to see me again, and I’d done the only thing a girl in my situation could do. I stood him up. Which I had immediately regretted.

Coming to the front doors of the hotel, I looked around quickly. No sign of Mase. Thank God for New York crowds. Between a busy street full of pedestrians and my short height, I was pretty sure I’d lost him.

Smoothing my hair and shirt, I got myself together and walked into the elegant lobby. I made my way to the elevator and went straight up to Rhys’s floor. Rhys had told me at the wedding that he was staying in the executive suite. Truth be told, this wasn’t the first time I had shown up at this very door, but it was the first time I knocked.

No answer.

“Shit.”

Mentally going through the rest of my options, and coming up with zero, I looked around quickly. No maid service, no people nearby . . .

I ran my fingers along the underside of the lock until I felt the tiny port hole that gave me hope. I had broken locks like this a dozen times as a teen.

Kneeling down and fishing through my bag, I grabbed a hairpin and pushed it into the port. Breaking and entering was something I hadn’t had to do in years, so my hands felt clumsy and awkward. Good and bad came with magnetic locks, and success always came down to the right tools.