Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (14 page)

It’s a lovely sound — one that doesn’t make my stomach clench or my breath catch.

I smile and pretend not to notice how empty that makes me feel.

To my surprise, the night passes easily. We drink crisp wine and eat delicious seafood and Cormack’s charm keeps conversation light, putting a smile on my face and a warmth in my belly. There’s no verbal sparring. We don’t spit barbed comments back and forth. Our eyes never clash with so much intensity I think I might shatter.

It’s all very normal. Exactly as a first date should be. As close to perfect as it gets.

I try to be happy about it.

After all, that’s the goal, right? That’s what we’re all supposed to be striving for in this life.

Happiness.

But if this, here in this moment with him, is what happiness feels like… I’m afraid I don’t like it half as much as my misery.

***

We walk along the waterfront after dinner. Rowes Wharf glows in the distance, the trees on the promenade strung with white lights. Not many people are out walking — it’s Sunday night, and chilly for May.

The wine in my system keeps me warm enough. When I came back from the bathroom after our entrees were finished, I found Cormack had refilled my glass to nearly the brim. I took a few small sips to be polite — it was a two hundred dollar bottle — but didn’t come close to finishing it.

Still, I must’ve had more than I meant to, because the after-effects of the alcohol are hitting me. Hard. My gait is unsteady as I maneuver the cobblestones in my four-inch heels — jet-black Manolos with killer silver accents. On a normal day, I can walk a tightrope in these.

“Whoa, there!” Cormack’s hand lands on my arm in a firm grip, steadying me when I bobble. “You all right?”

Actually, no. I’m not. My head is foggy and my toes are numb.

“I’m fine,” I murmur, pressing two fingertips to my temple. “Maybe a bit too much wine.”

Cormack laughs heartily. “We’ll get you home soon enough.”

I nod, distracted by the vibrations coming from my clutch purse. When I pull out my phone, an unknown number flashes across my screen.

“Who is it?” Cormack asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Let it go to voicemail.” He bends to meet my eyes, all smiles. “If it’s important, they’ll call back. The car’s just up ahead, and I have a surprise for you. We should get going or we’ll be late.”

I grin weakly. “It could be my brother calling from overseas. Or Lila calling from jail,” I joke. “You really never know.”

“Lila’s out with Padraic.” His eyes flash with frustration for a brief second, but he covers the slip so quickly, I think I must’ve imagined it.

“That doesn’t mean she hasn’t been arrested.” I try to smile but my lips are feeling numb.

“Of course.” Cormack’s jaw clenches in a surprising show of anger. “I’ll wait here, give you some privacy.”

“I’ll just be a second.” I stumble to a nearby bench overlooking the water, sliding my finger over the screen to accept the call. “Hello?”

“West, where the fuck are you?” a voice barks before the word has even left my mouth. “You’re not home.
Again
. I thought I told you to stay put.”

“Nate?”  My breath huffs out — I see it steam the air in front of my face, but I don’t feel at all cold. Strange. “Is that you?”

He pauses. “You don’t have my number in your phone?”

“Lila deleted it last year.” I sigh. “Told me it was time to let go.”

Wherefore art thou, verbal filter? Why hast thou abandoned me?

There’s another stony silence, longer this time. If I were sober, I’d worry what it meant.

“Are you drunk?” he asks abruptly, something strange and gravelly in his voice.

“What? No.” I shake my head, perplexed when it takes my vision a moment to catch up to the movement. There’s a three second delay between my eyes and my brain. “Ugh,” I moan, feeling disoriented. “Okay, maybe I’m a little drunk. But I swear I only had a glass of wine…” 

“West.” Suddenly, there’s steel in Nate’s tone. And, if I’m not mistaken, concern. “I’m coming to get you. Tell me where you are.”

“You can’t come. I’m on a date.”

“Fuck. You’re out with him, aren’t you?”

“I shouldn’t be on the phone.” My words have begun to run together. Everything is lagging, smearing around the edges. “It’s impolite.”

“I don’t give a fuck about polite, West. Listen to me, he’s not who he says he is—”

I snort. “And
you
are?”

“He’s dangerous!” Nate snaps. I hear the sound of an engine turning over through the phone. “Run. Get away from him. Right now.”

“Cormack isn’t dangerous,” I say, giggling. I don’t know why I’m giggling — I’m not a giggler. But I can’t seem to stop the hysterical noises as they bubble up from my throat.

There’s a small part of my brain — a part I can’t seem to access — that’s screaming at me to listen to Nate. The rest of my mind feels empty, dark. Like a switch has been flipped off, my neurons blinking out like a light.

“Tell me where you are. Please, just— fuck, West!” 

I must be drunk because I’m surely imagining things. That’s not
panic
in Nate’s voice. He’s a super badass mercenary. He doesn’t feel panic.

I sense movement in my peripheral. My head turns and, after a second, my eyes catch up. Cormack is standing there, frowning at me. His green-blue eyes are flat. When he speaks, that charming Irish accent I love so much has disappeared entirely, replaced by the flat, rough tones of a native Bostonian.

“Give me the fucking phone.”

Gimme tha fahkin’ phone.

“What?” I breathe. 

Nate’s shouting something through the speaker, but I can’t make out his words. I’m frozen as Cormack reaches for me, one hand closing over my arm in a tight hold, the other pulling the cell from my weakened fingers.

I try to move, but my limbs aren’t cooperating. Try to fight, but I have no strength. Try to scream, but I have no voice.

There’s only darkness, spreading like a cancer through my mind, reducing my vision until the blurs of color fade to black.

The last thing I remember before Cormack tosses my phone into the ocean and everything slides out of focus is the sound of Nate’s voice, tinny and distant, barking one word through the speaker.

“
Phoebe
!”

Some people are optimists.

Some people are pessimists.

I’m a Gemini.

Phoebe West, in defense of her

occasionally mercurial nature.

When I come to, I’m in a windowless room I don’t recognize. There’s a musty, dank smell like mold or mildew, and I get the sense I’m underground though I don’t know for sure. Goosebumps cover my exposed arms and legs – between the fright in my veins and frigid air in my lungs, all my hairs are standing on end.

It’s so dark in the room there’s barely any difference when I peel open my eyes. Not regular darkness — the pervasive, personified kind of dark that almost seems alive; where shadows slither along the walls and any corner might be hiding monsters. The kind that keeps children awake at night, weeping into pillows with blankets clenched tight, calling out for someone to comfort them.

I’d take a monster under my bed over this nightmare any day of the week.

My head aches like someone’s taken a jackhammer to it — lingering effects of whatever drug he slipped me. I can feel the rope wrapped tight across my midsection, binding my wrists to the arms of the steel-backed chair, looped fast around my ankles. My tongue pushes uselessly at the duct tape covering my mouth.

I thrash for a few moments until my strength runs out. 

Scream until my throat goes raw and I’m out of breath.

For all my trouble, nothing but muffled cries escape the thick tape. My wrists chafe until the skin breaks, but my binds never loosen.

No one hears me. Or, if they do, they don’t bother to come.

As the drug haze slowly clears, my mind swims with questions.

How did I get here? Did Cormack carry me from that bench to his car? Was he working alone? Why on earth would he take me? And above all, why the hell was I so fucking stubborn when Nate told me not to go out with him?

I don’t have answers to any except the last.

Pride.

Nate crashed back into my life out of nowhere, a rogue meteor disrupting my carefully-balanced orbit, and expected me to trust him like nothing had changed between us. Like no time had passed and I still thought he hung the moon.

Except I wasn’t six years old anymore, that day he’d stolen a screwdriver from the gardener’s shed and unscrewed my training wheels when Dad wasn’t home and Parker was inside playing some video game.

Trust me
, he’d said, both hands on the handlebars of my sparkly pink bike.
You can do this, little bird.

And I had. I’d trusted him, a ten-year-old kid, with every fiber of my being because I knew he’d never let me fall.

But he isn’t that boy anymore and I’ve long since stopped being the girl who puts blind faith in other people to protect her.

Trust isn’t transferrable. It doesn’t leap over years, cut through hurt and heartbreak. Once its foundations are shaken, the whole damn structure is destroyed. You have to demolish it with a wrecking ball and build it back up from ground level.

Nate expected me to ignore the rubble. To trust him without ever giving me a reason.

I can’t.

It hurt too goddamned much last time he disappeared to let him waltz back into my life and give orders like he’s earned the right. Call it pride, call it self-preservation, call it whatever you want — bottom line is, leaping into anything involving Nate before I look long and hard at the consequences… well, that felt like the biggest threat to my heart in history.

I just wish I’d been a bit more concerned with the looming threat to my life.

***

A long time passes.

So long, the pressure starts to build in my bladder until I can’t hold it anymore. Tears trickle down my face as wetness seeps into my favorite little black dress, now dirty and wrinkled. My nostrils sting as the scent of humiliation reaches them.

If I ever get out of this godforsaken dungeon, I’m going to burn this dress to ashes.

I try to imagine I’m somewhere else. Somewhere safe and warm.

Like Tahiti. Or curled up with Boo on my couch.

But for some unknown reason, when I crave safe and warm, all my mind conjures up is Nate. He’s neither of those things, but I can’t stop thinking of the look in his eyes when they crinkle up against his better judgment. The electric feeling of his hand on my arm. And mostly, the way his voice cracked when he finally used my first name.

My name on his lips — I feel it everywhere, like the first strike of my violin bow across the strings. It vibrates through my every atom until I’m charged with it.

Phoebe.

Phoebe.

Phoebe.

One word. I hang onto it like a lifeline.

He’ll find me. He’ll come.

I have to believe that.

I must have nodded off at some point, sagging against my bonds like a marionette on weak strings, because I jolt awake when the lights flip on.

It takes a minute to adjust to the sudden brightness — I squint in pain until the room comes into focus. My eyes widen as my gaze sweeps the space around me.

Definitely a basement.

Mold on the rough-hewn stone walls. Dirt floor. Bare bulb hanging from a cord overhead. There’s a dusty graveyard of bar stools in one corner, broken legs and torn cushions rendering them useless. A few boxes are stacked along the far wall, by a set of rickety stairs leading god only knows where. And there are two men standing in front of me — legs planted firmly, arms crossed over their chests, eyes locked on my face.

Cormack and Padraic.

My eyes narrow. If looks could kill, they’d both be dismembered and dying on the dirt floor at my feet.

“Good.” Cormack’s voice is as cold as his smile. “You’re awake.”

My eyes must widen fractionally when his voice — thick with an unmistakable South Boston accent — reaches my ears, because he laughs.

“Oh, the accent?” His lips twist into a smirk and he shakes his head in amusement. “Yeah. Born and raised in Southie. But snotty bitches like you wouldn’t give me the time of fucking day if I talked like this. Slap on a shitty Irish accent, though, and you’re practically begging for it.”

Me? Begging for it?

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

He steps closer, gaze dropping to scan my body. “Too bad your little boyfriend started digging. I thought we’d have more time to…” He licks his lips and I try not to squirm in my seat. “…get to know each other.”

Gone are his silver cufflinks, his two thousand dollar suit, his designer tie. He’s in a tight fitting green t-shirt, dark jeans, a Carhartt jacket, and work boots. His clothes aren’t the only things he’s changed — his entire demeanor has shifted from charming to caustic in a matter of hours. It’s like staring at a stranger.

“Enough,” Padraic says, speaking for the first time. “Get on with it. We don’t have a lot of time.”

Cormack shoots his friend a dark look. “This was my idea, jackass. Don’t forget it. If I hadn’t brought you in, you’d be a bottom feeder for the rest of your life.”

Padraic bristles. “You’d never have gotten close to her without me. The only reason any of your shitty fucking plan worked is ‘cause I scored with her friend and got you an intro. Without me, you’d be nowhere.”

“Just give me the fucking paper.”

Padraic shoves a newspaper against Cormack’s chest with so much force, he rocks back a few inches.

Trouble in paradise?

Cormack’s eyes narrow as his hands come up to clench the paper. “Just go call Smithy. Tell him we’ve got West’s balls in a vise so tight, he’ll pay double Mac’s normal commission if we ask. Hell, he’ll pay a king’s fortune.”

Padraic’s arms cord with tension — he likes being bossed around about as much as a steroid-abusing body builder enjoys testicular shrinkage. He holds his tongue, though, giving a curt nod and turning for the stairs without protest.

Leaving me alone with my caring, compassionate almost-boyfriend, who drugged me and tied me to a chair in a basement that makes the
Silence of the Lambs
set look downright inviting.

Christ. The first time in my life I try dating, and this is what happens. First Brett, now Cormack.

What are the odds of that? Approximately a gazillion to one, I’d guess.

Am I some kind of psychopath magnet? Am I putting out some kind of beacon to attract the crazies? Emitting signals on a frequency only heard by those who score high on the Levenson Psychopathy Scale?

Oh my god.

My vagina is a dog whistle for sociopaths.

Perfect. Just
perfect
.

Spinsterhood never sounded so good.

Cormack is eyeing me with a flat, measuring look. Before I can wonder what he’s planning or even flinch away, he takes two strides in my direction, reaches out, and rips the duct tape off my mouth in one sharp tug.

“Fuck!”

The curse bursts out before I can stop it — an involuntary reaction to the tape tearing at my skin. Pain stings my chapped, bleeding lips. My head falls forward, hair cascading in a tangled, dark brown curtain around my face as I gasp for much-needed air. Breathing through my nose for the past few hours has left me lightheaded. Without the tight loops of rope around my midsection I’d slide to the floor like a wet piece of linguine, boneless and weak.

God, my mouth is drier than California in a drought, now that whatever sedative he slipped me is wearing off. I’d give my virginity for a single glass of water. My tongue darts out to catch the trickle of blood oozing from one of the cracks in my split lips. Sticky tape residue coats my skin like superglue.

“Take this and shut the fuck up.” He shoves a copy of today’s
Boston Globe
into my tethered hands. “And don’t cover the fucking date.”

My fingertips curl awkwardly around the top edge, arms gawking at an odd angle against their bonds as I try to maintain my grip without blocking the bold typeface at the corner. My eyes scan the headlines briefly — nothing exceptional jumps out.

Sox Sweep: Red Sox take Orioles 4-0 in Fenway Victory

Mayor Walsh Approves Anti-Tobacco Bill

Spring Storms Cause Citywide Power Outages

There it is — the rest of the world, carrying on as though nothing happened. As though I’m not tied to a chair in a dark basement somewhere, breathing in toxic black mold spores — they need to get an exterminator down here
pronto
, this stuff can’t be healthy — all while praying to god they don’t kill me.

Because, well…. I can’t die. Not when I’ve barely
lived
.

I’m only twenty-three. I haven’t gotten to go skydiving or ever been kissed passionately in the rain. I haven’t had the chance to try out a surely-disastrous pixie cut or tan topless on a beach in the French Riviera. I’ve haven’t gone cage-swimming with sharks or told the man I’m crazy about that I
love him
.
Hate him
.
Want him
. Want to kill him?

Oh, who the hell knows.

I’ve never been in a committed relationship. Hell, I’ve never even had an orgasm.

Seriously, I can’t go to my grave without at least
one
Big O on my record. That’s a crime against humanity.

“Your daddy will want proof of life,” Cormack sneers, snapping me back to reality. “Hold it up so I can see it. You cooperate, you go home. You don’t…”

He doesn’t fill in the rest; doesn’t need to. It’s pretty self-explanatory, as threats go.

I contemplate tossing the paper to the floor at his feet, but I’m not exactly in a position to fight back. I try to lift my arms higher, but it’s not easy to do much of anything with the cord wrapped so tight around my wrists. The skin has gone raw where the rope digs into my flesh and my fingers feel tingly from lack of circulation. Unable to shift on the cold metal seat, everything below the waist is pretty much numb.

Once, I watched a YouTube video showing how to escape if your hands are ever bound with duct tape. Just my luck I’d end up with the one kidnapper in the freaking world who still uses rope.

He strides across the room and flips on a set of overhead track lights, the sudden flare of the bulbs making my eyes water. I squint to keep him in focus as he sets his iPhone on a tripod and aims it at me.

“Smile for the camera, love.” His lips twist in a cruel grin and I wonder for the thousandth time how I missed it — the sociopathic gleam in his eyes, the dark edge to his charm. How could I have been so blind?

Oh, right.

The accent. The dimples. The muscles. And dear god, the way he fills out a pair of dress pants…

Frankly, I never stood a chance.

“Come on, Phoebe. You can do better than that.” His eyes narrow. “Daddy will be wanting an update on his darling daughter’s safety.”

“Fuck you,” I spit, glaring at him.

“That can be arranged,” he volleys back flatly, the threat sending a cold tingle down my spine.