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“But. . .”
“Number, kiddo.”
“I don’t know,” the guy exhales. He’s lying. It’s that little twitch in his lips that gives him away. The building complex is small, and there are no more than ten apartments on every floor.
“Let’s try again.” Nate throws the guy’s back into the wall, hard enough to break a bone or two. “This time, we’ll use a little thing called honesty, okay? Keep in mind that it’s late, and my companion has a curfew. She should be in my bed in approximately forty minutes, and every minute I’m here, talking to you instead of fucking her, is a terrible inconvenience for us both.”
I flush red and my thighs clutch together.
“Show me to Sebastian Goddard’s door. Now.”
This time Nate speckles his request with a fist to the guy’s nose, and his head finds a glassed painting behind him. The frame shatters, raining glass on the guy’s face. Nate has to yank him back out by pulling on his short, damp hair.
“Okay. Okay. Fine! It’s apartment 34. Now please, just please, let me go.”
“Happily. We’ll even escort you to your place.”
The guy looks between me and Nate like this is some kind of a terrible conspiracy. Nevertheless, Nate herds him to the far corner of the hallway, hurrying past apartment 34. When I notice the number, my heart thumps so hard against my chest, it a hurts my ribs. The guy looks between us and his door, sighs, and takes out his keys, pushing his door ajar. Nate walks into his apartment, and I follow suit.
What’s he doing?
Where is he taking this?
We already have Seb’s apartment number, why is he still harassing the poor guy?
Nate walks around the living room, his fist still clutching the fabric of this guy’s collar. “Nice place.” He pushes the guy to sit on the floor under his kitchen sink and jams his wrists against one of the cabinet handles. Next thing he does is take the black cloth he used to cuff me with out of his back pocket and wrap the guy’s arms tightly against the doors. So tight, in fact, that the guy grimaces and jerks his head from side to side, fighting tears.
“Oh, shit, oh, no,” the guy curses, and Nate shakes his head and throws me a glance from behind his shoulder.
“Just for the record, it was so much more fun to handcuff you, Baby-Cakes.”
I flip Nate the bird and he laughs. I love this guy so much, the need to be around him overwhelms me. So perfect. So flawed. Ironically, in very similar ways.
Nate squats down, shoves his hand into the guy’s pocket and takes out his cell phone, tossing it aside. It lands on the floor on the opposite side of the living room in a bang.
“Sorry, bud. It ain’t personal. You look like an all right kid, but see, we can’t chance you calling the cops on us. Thank you for your cooperation and have a wonderful weekend. And let me just spare you the guilt trip—we would’ve found him with or without your help. So don’t spend a minute thinking you were responsible for Mr. Goddard’s death.” He slaps Suit’s cheek endearingly. “Sleep tight.”
Nate stands up, hooks his arm around my shoulder and guides me out of the apartment. We close the door silently and pour back into the hallway. When we get to Sebastian’s door, holding hands, our bodies draw deep breaths in perfect harmony.
It’s happening. I’m getting that piece of my soul back.
“He’s mine,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
“He’s yours,” Nate whispers back. “So am I. So is everything in this fucking world, as long as I’m by your side. I love you, Storm.”
“I love you, Peace.” My heart collapses with excitement, flowing in dangerous waves. It’s like feeling an emotional orgasm, and I blink away my tears. By the time I open my eyes, Nate releases his hold on my hand, takes a step back, gaining momentum, and kicks the door down with a loud bang that fills the hallway with noise and my gut with fear.
“Surprise, motherfucker,” Beat’s mask announces into the thin, cold air of Sebastian Goddard’s apartment. “Guess what? We’re alive, well, and fucking pissed.”
It’s show time.
Sebastian’s living room looks like a psychiatric ward. The walls are heavily padded, due to his inability to stand the sound of life. Furniture, couch, paintings, and even the TV is white. Everything is hollow, empty and bleached. Arranged neatly and obsessively in straight lines. Nothing is misplaced and everything has a purpose.
Nate moves smoothly toward the bedroom at the end of the hallway. Again, I find myself following, kicking myself mentally for thinking I could have done this on my own.
Nate kicks Seb’s bedroom door open to find him already up on his feet, reaching for his gun and loading it with bullets. His quivering fingers fail him. He’s wearing boxer briefs and a plain white dress shirt. He was going to sleep good tonight, thinking he’s safe. It makes me hate him even more.
