Rapture (Renegades 7)
When she was sure they were deep enough within the building to avoid eyes and cameras, she met his gaze. And, God, the look in his eyes. Soft and sweet, longing and desire. “She’s not here for me. She’s here so the media will say she’s with me. She’s under a lot of pressure.”
What. About. Me?
Zahara stepped back. “That’s too bad.”
“I told her to leave.”
She crossed her arms. “And what did she say?”
He sighed, his shoulders slumped. “I can’t force her to go back to the States.”
Zahara huffed a laugh, shook her head, and looked at the floor. She lifted a hand to brush at the back of her neck, where sugar shards abraded her skin.
Chase closed the distance between them, lifted her face, and kissed her.
Zahara covered his hands with hers and pulled away. “Chase—”
“No one can see us.” He kissed her again. “This is real. This.” He kissed her again. “This is where my heart is.”
That broke her resistance.
This time when he kissed her, she savored the feel of his lips against hers.
Footsteps pulled them apart. Now Zahara’s mind fragmented, her emotions pinging between simmering frustration and reluctant acceptance.
Chase finished hooking up his harness and turned just as Ross and Sam reentered the room.
“Are we good to go?” Ross asked.
“Good to go,” Chase said.
Ross and Sam took their positions, one at the door and one at the window.
Chase took Zahara’s hand and threaded their fingers. There was no need to pull away. This was part of the script.
He grinned at her. “Just like we practiced.”
Zahara exhaled and fought to get her head in the game. They’d only practiced twice. And that was two days ago. She realized now she should have told the crew to hold off putting in this candy window. Should have practiced the jump with Chase one more time right before the real thing.
The snap of the clapboard outside jolted Zahara from her thoughts. Then Andy calling, “Ready…and…action.”
Chase pushed into a sprint, and Zahara hesitated, letting him drag her into the run.
After years of practice, muscle memory kicked in. She and Chase jumped together. She tucked her head and squeezed her eyes tight. Another blast of sugar shards sprayed her before she and Chase dropped into a freefall.
The second Chase’s hand tightened on hers, Zahara realized he’d drifted right. Worse, she realized she’d forgotten to hook their harnesses together.
Then they hit the awning and bounced, bounced, bounced. The last jolt pried his hand from hers and when they went into the short fall from the awning to the safety bag, panic speared Zahara’s chest. She pried her lids open just enough to find Chase.
He was too far right. Goddammit, he was too far right.
She braced—not to hit the bag, but to handle what happened after.
Without the tether forcing them to hit the bag as one unit, Chase’s weight shot Zahara back into the air. She did her best to control her body, to finesse the momentum to
keep her at the center of the bag, but multiple bounces tossed Zahara like a bean bag. She flew off the pad and found the ground rushing at her. She tucked and twisted, instinctively protecting her belly from the hit. She landed on her side and rolled. Pain stabbed her shoulder.
She came to a stop on her side, looking at the asphalt with Cardinally’s “no direct blows to your pelvis” echoing in her head and panic slicing her gut.