Accidental Protector: A Marriage Mistake Romance Page 20

  Odd.

  I check the battery, which is fully charged.

  No new texts. No missed calls. I check my emails, which are nothing but junk. No signs of any mysterious DO NOT OPEN doomsday notes. Then I dial my voicemail manually, wondering if I missed anything, mainly out of curiosity.

  Nothing.

  Noah is still on the balcony, so just for fun, because there's no other reason, I try my mother again.

  “Hello?” Finally, she answers. Her voice is cautious.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask. “It's been days since you called, acting like the world would end if I opened a freaking email.”

  “No, no, nothing at all. I’m just very busy. How are you holding up, dear?”

  “Fine. Busy doing what exactly?” I send up a silent plea that it has nothing to do with the no-longer-needed wedding.

  “Oh, uh, just cleaning. It was windy yesterday and the house is full of dust. Your father left the upstairs window cracked, I'm afraid, when the dust storm rolled in. Had to get the carpet specially cleaned. How are you doing? Having fun? Has anyone...have you heard from anyone?”

  Her voice is thick with tension.

  What the hell is going on here? Seriously?

  “No,” I answer. Confused why she'd even ask. “Like who? Am I supposed to hear something?”

  “Well, um, maybe Martha? Martha, of course, that's who I mean!”

  I cringe. I really should go check on the apartment and pick up my car.

  It’s still there. I’d totally forgotten until now.

  “No,” I answer. “Don't think she's back in town for a few more days. Have you heard from her?”

  “Nope! All must be going well. Are you still planning on coming home at the end of the month? Or will it be sooner?”

  That’s right, I'd originally said July. The third.

  Tomorrow's the fourth, and I wonder if Noah would like to watch the fireworks somewhere. He’s on the balcony now, wearing just the pair of khaki shorts he’d pulled on while leaving the bedroom.

  Snug as a bug in a love nest, time hasn’t meant much to me the past few days, not as much as other things. Those other things have been amazing. Eden, come to earth.

  “Why would it be sooner?” I ask. “You didn't answer my question. Have you heard something? From Martha? Mom, what's really going –”

  “Oh, my, there's a package! Someone at the door,” she says, suddenly chipper. “I’ll call you right back, dear. Bye.”

  As the call disconnects, an eerie sensation tickles my spine. I think through the oddball conversations, the last two we've had.

  There's one thing conspicuously missing: Charlie.

  Charlie, and the wedding.

  Crap. Is that because...he’s here? In town? At Martha’s?

  Mom made it sound like he'd show up days ago before the silent treatment started.

  But then he would've called. Wouldn't he?

  “Why the frown, darlin'?”

  I glance up and shrug at Noah. “Nothing really. My mother just sounded...odd. Second time, actually.”

  “Odd?”

  “Not bad. Not distressed. I mean, she’d tell me if something was wrong...I think. Just odd. Who was on your call?”

  “Lucient.” He drops the phone on the coffee table as he walks past. I do a double take. “He wants me to do another job. I told him fuck no.”

  Shocked, I follow him into the kitchen. “What about Jess?”

  “I’m done playing by his rules. Told him we're through. Not till he gives me stone-cold proof he knows what happened to her.”

  “Wow.” It's hard to breathe. “How'd he take that?”

  “Asshole hung up.”

  My stomach sinks. “Jesus. What now?”

  “I don’t know.” He slaps the counter. “Don't know, damn it.”

  I walk over, twining my arms around him from behind. “It'll be okay, Noah. You're doing all you can.”

  “No, darlin'. That's the problem: I’m not.”

  I shake my head, the hurt for him consuming me. “I don't get it. What more can you do? You're facing a nightmare. Head on.”

  “Should be out there, tracking him. That's what. I should have that fuck hog-tied in a nice little pocket of desert, using every trick in the book till he coughs up something real, something true, something useful about what the hell happened to my cousin.”

  I get another shiver. He really means it. I let go of him.

  “And you aren’t there because of me.”

  He twists around, his eyes turned to twin blue flames. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” I take another step back. “You aren’t out there looking for him because you think you need to protect me around the clock.” Another thought strikes. “That’s why you refused to do another job for him. Because of me. I'm the one who's holding you back.”

  An anxious burn pangs my stomach. My eyes, searching for something besides him, land on the CD player. “God, Noah. That’s what this was all about, wasn't it? You’ve been keeping me here. Trying to keep me safe.”

  “Lucky, it’s not like –”

  I'm scared. Confused. Horrified by the sudden clarity, wondering how it's possible the truth can bring so much discomfort.

  “Like what?” I point to the door. “Can I leave? Look, I know you're trying to help, but what is this, really? Do I still get choices?”

  His jaw goes tight. His entire body.

  There's a resounding no in every movement. A promise in his sharp gaze. A plea, asking me to let this go, and somewhat accept the grim reality that I'm stuck with Noah Bernard, whether I like it or not, because I've been dragged into the middle of a war. His war.

  “Idiot!” I press my palm against my cheek, slowly shifting the skin. I’m as mad at myself for not seeing what was happening as I am at him. “I haven’t been outside that door in days. Days!”

  Not since our night at the Mexican place with Aunt Judy. Of course, he'd been with me then, and I hadn't left his sight.

  How was I so blind? So stupid?

  Drugged. Again. That has to be it.

  Not literally, not like the first time, but only a love potion could've made me this foolish. A chemical reaction in my brain put there by Hercules himself.

  “Holy hell,” I mutter again, still rubbing my face. “I just got out of one controlling relationship...”

  Overwhelmed, I stomp across the living room, into the bedroom. He follows and stands in the doorway, watching as I pull my big suitcase out of the closet. A split second later, I've hoisted it onto the bed and unzipped the top.

  He walks in, pushes a hand over mine, and slams it shut. “You aren’t going anywhere. Let's take a deep breath and think about this.”

  “Well, I'm sure as hell not staying here.”

  “You have to,” he growls, anger and worry mingling in his voice.

  I try to shove his huge hand off my bag. Not very successfully. “Wrong, Noah. I didn't agree to be under lock and key. I'm not your hostage. I’m going back to Martha’s place. Somewhere to clear my head. And before you start, I know the dangers. I do.”

  Do I? Who the heck knows, honestly. I've never faced down hardened men with guns, but somehow, the odds that they'll actually snatch me away seem far less daunting than what's coming. This mad, pissed off urge to throw my palm across Noah's face.

  He lied to me again. Lied by omission. Lied with such brutal finesse, I wonder if anything we've experienced this past week was ever true.

  “Lucky, don't. Shit. If you walk out of here...” He grabs my hands, holds them at my side, keeping me right in front of him. “It’s not safe for you out there. Lucient knows who you are. Go ahead, hate me, you're well within your rights. I'd rather you kick me square in the fucking balls, if it makes you feel better, rather than put your life in danger. To leave yourself hanging out in the open for him.”

  We lock eyes and I stare.

  I think I gaze right through him. The worst part is
, every word of it is true.

  Noah wants to do good. He wants to keep me safe. But he's done it by being a manipulative jackass, and no matter how hard I see that sweet, caring boy behind his roaring screw-the-world man-wall, I can't give in. Can't let him lead me God only knows where, while keeping me in the dark about being strung around.

  “I don’t care,” I whisper. “You can't keep me here. We both know it.”

  “Fuck, Lucky, I do care. Can't fathom why that's so damn hard for you to see.”

  “Why?” I ask, challenging him to answer honestly with a glare. “How can you expect me to believe you actually care about anything when all you've got are more lies?”

  He glances away, his eyes narrowed, rage flicking through him. “Because it’s my fault you’re in this mess. I'm the asshole who put you there!”

  His fists fly up in the air and I stagger backward, assessing him as he catches himself. Slowly, his hands come down, and he runs a hand over his forehead.

  “You, Lucky,” he snarls, turning, pinning me to the ground with those flaming blue, whirlwind eyes. “You're everything that wasn't supposed to happen and everything I always needed, without ever knowing it. You're all I'm stuck thinking about when I'm fighting off the next fucked up nightmare at two in the morning, when I'm all twisted up because you give hell back as good as you take it, when I'm pulling myself off in the goddamn shower because I missed a chance to be in you again. Hell, woman, I'd give my right nut to get you out of my head, because every time I try, I realize it's fucking impossible. You're the only woman on this nasty, bleeding earth I'd ever give a second thought to calling my wife. You're something special, and I've given you nothing but a special kind of torture. I can't let you suffer no more. I won't. Can't let you hurt for my sins.”

  He takes a step toward me, so blisteringly fast I barely have time to take a couple more wobbly steps back.

  What do I do? What could any woman do after hearing such a huge, loaded, painfully sweet pile of crap? Or is he finally – finally! – telling me the unadulterated truth?

  The pain inside me is real. Visceral.

  My eyes sting, but I refuse to cry. I also refuse to believe I might care just as much for him. Because I'm way past knowing what to believe about anything.

  Before I know it, he's on me, but only for a few seconds.

  Wrenching my arms out of his hold, I slap his chest with both hands. “No, no. Fuck you, Bernard. Fuck. You.”

  I turn sharply, run into the bathroom, slamming the door as the tears hit.

  The bitter truth drops on me like a sledgehammer. His words won't stop echoing in my head.

  I’m in love with him.

  Flipping head over heels in love with a gold medal heartbreaker. Sighing, smothering my sobs in my hand, I sit down on the toilet and hang my head. It's not like this is the first time I'm thinking it, either. This is just the ugliest.

  I have no idea when, or even how this happened, but it did. I'm really, truly in love with this stupid, cocky, maddening beast-man.

  Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, I blow my nose. I’m smarter than this.

  Know better than to fall in love. I’ve been telling myself that for years. It had worked for years, too. Until I’d decided to change.

  With Charlie, it was never so much love, as hoping everything would just fall into place. It was never like this, a storm of passion tossing me around, elation and heartache around every bend.

  I'd built up a shell around myself, especially this past year, mentally preparing for a wedding I never wanted. And then finding the strength to break it off without killing myself in the process.

  God. A whole lot of good that did.

  Except, that’s not true.

  I know I'm just beating myself up. It did me a world of good.

  I’m just having a setback. A crazy bump in the road worthy of an action flick. That’s all.

  I survived Charlie. I can make it through this insanity, too, if I just take time to cool down, think, and breathe.

  Sliding off the toilet, I throw away the wad of tissue and then wash my face.

  It doesn’t matter if he loves me or not. Emotions can't be decision makers here.

  What does matter is, he can’t hold me prisoner here.

  I won't let him, and I think he knows it.

  After another tense minute, I step forward and pull open the door.

  He’s still there, of course. Standing near the bed. Hangdog face and eyes more intense than the sun, the moon, and the stars put together. My suitcase is back in the closet.

  Lifting my chin, I walk out. “So, what are we going to do about this? You holding me hostage, I mean. Not anything else.”

  “I’m not holding you hostage.”

  I walk away, out the bedroom door. It’s too hard arguing with him next to the place where we’ve spent so much time. “Tell that to the cops when I call them.”

  “Cops? Lucky –”

  “Don’t call me that,” I say over my shoulder. “I’m about as unlucky as they come. If I had a shred of grace or good fortune, I wouldn't be here dealing with this.”

  Somehow, I can't bring myself to say you.

  Pausing, I give him a head to toe once over glare, then turn around and keep walking toward the kitchen. “Look at where I am. Being held prisoner by a bounty hunter.” The very words taste ridiculous on my tongue.

  “You're not my goddamn hostage,” he rumbles again. Those fires in his eyes are storms now.

  “Whatever. Deny it as many times as you want. Won’t change the fact it’s true.” Having walked as far as I can, I stop next to the counter and hit the play button on the CD player.

  Opera belts out, climactic and ear-splitting.

  “I’m not holding you hostage. We can leave. Whenever you want. Go wherever you want.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “We.”

  Another fireball rolls inside me. I reach over and turn up the volume.

  He reaches around me, grazes my shoulder, and turns the player off. “Is that your answer to this? Drown the whole damn world out?”

  I give him a sneer. “No. It’s a sign that I don’t want to talk to you anymore since nothing's getting through.” I hit the play button again and walk away. “Learn to listen, Noah Bernard.”

  16

  Ugly Scene (Noah)

  It’s been over two hours and she still hasn’t said a word.

  She hasn’t changed CDs either. Pure torture. That’s what it is. My intro to opera has turned into a sanity-breaking overload.

  She knows it. Mindy knows she’s right, too.

  I have kept her here. Intentionally. Bending the truth without regrets.

  Because I meant every heated word that ripped out of me when I slammed her suitcase shut. Real talk I should've had the balls to speak days ago. Plus, this burning need to keep her safe, to throw my own corpse on Lucient's wheels of death if that's what it takes to keep Lucky out of his sick machine.

  Never, since I was around fifteen and had my first job, have I ever spent entire days not working. Aunt Judy's unexpected drop-in was a small part of that, sure, but Mindy's the rest.

  I’ve taken a call here or there. Jumped on my laptop, sifting through files. Paper pushing shit, which doesn't count when the only work that matters is getting out in the field, up close and personal with the demon poisoning my life.

  Instead, I'm here. My whole focus shifted.

  Living with her. Loving her. Making promises I don't know if I can keep, but goddamn do I want to.

  Goddamn, do I love Mindy Austin.

  Right now, it’s killing me to watch her strutting around in one of my button-up shirts, and not being able to take full advantage of that.

  The little minx knows it, too. She's made a point of brushing past me for hours, nose still lofted high in the air. Aloof, just as frustrated as me, and still a total cock-tease.

  Outwardly, I play the ignorance card well.

  Inside, I’
m so bound up in knots, I think my left ball is now my right one.

  I can handle that, I tell myself for the millionth time. I'm going to win this stand-off.

  Have to win. Have to drag her to her senses. Have to hold out longer than her. There’s no other option.

  That pisses me off something fierce. It's ridiculous it's come to this.

  Then I reach back in my memory, remembering what Aunt Judy used to say about loving my Uncle Ed.

  “Don't go looking for sense where there isn't none, son. Love's a fickle thing. Hard to figure out and even harder to nail down. You give it half a chance, it'll flip you on your sweet little rear faster than you'll ever know how or why. Logic doesn't work here, Noah. Not with love. Not by half.”

  Lucky stomps past me and enters the bedroom again, flipping her chestnut hair. There’s no reason for me to follow her. If we weren’t on the thirtieth floor, I’d worry about her climbing out the window, trying to make her escape.

  Wish that were my only worry. I lean back against the sofa and close my eyes, trying like hell not to imagine her on my bed, wearing nothing but that lopsided shirt I’d love to undo with my teeth.

  I’d put on fresh pants and shirt earlier, hoping she might take the hint. If she had, she’d totally ignored it.

  A smile touches my lips. Deep down, as frustrating as this is, I admire her grit.

  So does Aunt Judy. She’d told me so when I walked her to her car, before she left town.

  Right before she told me she could see how much I love Lucky. I nearly snorted at the mere suggestion.

  Didn’t think she knew anything then.

  Didn't think I did just a couple days ago. But if I'm being straight, fuck yes, I did. And I do.

  My aunt, with her sixth sense, is one too many people knowing the awful truth.

  I’m the fool who still doesn't want to come to terms. It's been hard – damn hard – to spill even a fraction of the truth with Lucky.

  I’ll make it up to her someday.

  If she’ll let you, asshole, I think.

  I’m almost too scared to imagine what happens if she doesn't. Just like Aunt Judy said, I may have met my match.

  The music stops abruptly. Sitting up, I open my eyes.