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Chapter Twenty-One
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“Fuck.”
It wasn’t the version of the word she expected Franzen to be ending their night with. To be honest, even after Garrett showed up, it wasn’t how she expected things to go at all.
As the reality set in, so did the terror. The nerve-stealing, mind-gripping, I-can’t-think-anymore fear, driving only one thought up from her senses—the same word that bled, raw and full of pain, from her lips.
“Luke.”
Franzen spun her around. Shook her, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were the darkest she’d ever seen them. Ruthless as coal. Rimmed with smoke. “Listen to me. He’ll be safe.” His jaw turned to equal flint. “I promise you, Tracy. He’ll be safe.”
Somehow, her head wobbled in a pathetic semblance of a nod. “Okay,” she rasped, only to stammer the next moment, “Please…John…”
He cupped the back of her neck. His stare searched hers now, all the fire and brimstone suddenly lost. In their place was a wash of what looked like wonder, perhaps even awe—and something else. A something echoed in the deepest reaches of her soul.
She swallowed hard. That something had a name.
But not right now.
The only name she cared about right now was Luke. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else made sense. It also explained why John’s shout of her name sounded as if he was on repetition three or four, to which she finally gave a mumbled, “Wha…?”
“I said, you need to go with Max. Right now.”
“No.” She gaped at him as sharply as the lucidity rushing back in. Was he nuts? She refused to acknowledge the answer that surged from her gut. He wasn’t nuts. He was John. He was Sir. He was the one who saw her, who knew her; who made every damn decision with her happiness and confidence and well-being in mind. Who always made the right decision…
Yeah, well. Everyone was due an off night.
“No,” she echoed, because now he hadn’t heard her. They were still headed the wrong direction down the tunnel, down a strange side hall in which the gray bricks gave way drywall and paint and the air smelled of exhaust and gasoline—nowhere near the basement laundry room they’d passed before. “John, I’m not going to—”
“You sure as hell are going to.” In any other time or circumstance, that succinct growl would’ve had her belly fluttering and her pussy clenching. Right now, it only made her yearn to yank away, turn heel, and run back into Bastille like the batshit brat he was making her feel. If only this were that simple. If only she really could lead him on a merry chase through a bunch of kink role play rooms, finally letting him catch up and punish her in any wicked way he saw fit…
But yeah, this was her off night too.
Because this nightmare was really happening.
Thoughts she had no damn time to process, because hell was hitting too freaking fast. Even in Rayna’s runners, she was breathless keeping up with John’s wide, efficient strides. Even forcing her mind into crisis mode, she had to blink against disbelief when he whipped one of his burner phones out of a side pocket and barked five unfathomable words.
“It’s Franzen. We’ve been made.”
At the end of the hall, there was a wide glass door. Through the pane, she spotted rows of parked cars—beyond the cobalt blue Hellcat and steel gray Jag XKR-S idling in front of the lobby. Max and Garrett, having somehow disappeared during her brain’s flight from sanity to panic to fear, paced in front of both front bumpers like textbook goons from a gangster movie. It was an improvement from the horror show comparison, at least—turning damn close to a joyous chick flick when she spotted Gem and Ronnie seated in the back of Garrett’s Hellcat.
They both flashed her elated grins, while raising hands with two fingers up and two down, thumbs extended. Their version of love, the American Sign Language way. As thoroughly as Tracy longed to answer by dashing over, yanking open the door, and crushing them both into hugs, she was hyper-conscious of the exact situation they faced right now.
We’ve been made.
It meant that at any moment now, some lunatic—perhaps the same one who’d set the explosives in the villa at the Bellagio—could jump out from anywhere, ready with even more of his fun fireworks. With Franz still on the phone, only Max and Garrett had eyes on the entire garage. The job usually required a Secret Service army of ten.
“You think I fucking know how it happened, Sol?” The fury in Franz’s voice shot through his body, though when Tracy squeezed his hand in support, he returned the pressure. Such a strange, seemingly insignificant gesture—but as soon as her heart flipped twelve different directions because of it, curtains raised on a much bigger mental vista. Suddenly, it was like she balanced atop a hundred-foot flagpole at the edge of the Grand Canyon.
Was this what her life was going to be like until the next election? And beyond that, even if she decided not to submit for reelection? Would she always be hiding now? Always wondering if the next parking garage—or movie theater, or airport, or hotel villa—was hiding assassins in its shadows, waiting to toss a bomb into her belly or fire a bullet into her brain?
If so…how was she going to handle any of it without John?
No.
How was she going to handle even the normal days without him?
