Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (16 page)

My eyes slip closed and I try to regulate my breathing. I’m panting like a sex-line operator. My lungs ache with each inhale and every muscle in my legs burns like my veins are on fire. I can’t tell whether the buzzing in my ears is from lack of oxygen, permanent brain damage, or the flickering street lamp down the block.

I don’t know how long I lie there — not nearly long enough to recover — before Tink interrupts me.

“Take this.” Her voice is close. When I open my eyes, I find her crouched down at eye level with me. Her breaths are perfectly even, her face is a mask of composure.

“What?” I whimper, barely able to get out the word.

She rolls her eyes, grabs my hand, and presses a slim black cellphone into my palm. “It’s a burner. Call whoever it is you need to call, then toss it. Do not, under any circumstances, call the police. You got me?”

My eyes widen and I drag myself up into a sitting position, abs burning the entire way. My fingers curl around the phone. “Why?”

“This neighborhood…” Her eyes shift to scan the empty street. “You call the cops, you’re just as likely to get an officer in Mac’s pocket as you are an honest one.”

“Who
is
Mac?”

She stares at me a beat. “God, you really don’t know anything at all, do you?”

“I know I was just kidnapped by a guy I thought was really cute, until he turned out to be a sociopath. I know you’re a lunatic, who happened to save my life just now. I know this all has something to do with my father and his waterfront development.” My voice is rising and I think I’m getting a little hysterical, now that I’m not tied to a chair in a basement or running for my life. “I know I would really, really like a shower, because I smell like sweat and dirt and tears and my own pee, and now there’s a wad of gum in my hair and I’ll probably have to chop it all off and get a pixie cut — which I realize is something that’s always been on my bucket list but, I mean, it’s a big commitment. It’s not like I have Emma Watson’s bone structure. It could be a total disaster. Do you know how long it takes a pixie cut to grow out, Tink?
Months
. Months! I could be dead by then! I could get kidnapped again tomorrow by a cute guy with dimples who’s actually a psycho in disguise and then where will I be? In a
coffin
. With a
pixie cut
.” I think I laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. “I’ll have to have a closed casket funeral. Or maybe they should just cremate me and call it a day.”

I stop talking at that point because I literally run out of breath.

Tink stares at me in silence, her brows raised, waiting for me to go on. I don’t. Instead, I pull a deep gulp of air in through my nose and try to collect myself. Rambling like a schizophrenic off her meds isn’t exactly my best look.

“Should I slap you, or are you good now?” she asks eventually.

I swallow. “I think I’m good.”

“Great.” She rises to full height — barely hitting five feet — and glances down the street again, as though she’s not quite convinced we’re in the clear yet. “I’ve gotta jet. Stay out of trouble, princess. You owe me one.”

Then, she turns and walks away. Just like that.

No explanation.
Nothing
.

“Wait!” I whisper-yell after her. “
Tink
!”

Just before she rounds the corner and disappears from sight, she glances back over one shoulder at me with an exasperated
what the fuck do you want
expression.

“Thank you,” I call quietly, hoping the sound carries to her.

It must, because she tilts her head in acknowledgement and tosses a wink at me a second before she melts into the night, leaving me utterly alone.

***

My fingers tremble against the illuminated buttons. I can count on one hand the phone numbers I’ve got memorized. Of those few, there’s only one sure-bet who I know will answer day or night, even if she doesn’t recognize the caller.

I dial and press the speaker to my ear, wondering if I should move from the bench, find a bush to hide in or something, like they do in the movies.

Am I safe here? Is Cormack out looking for me?

It barely rings before the call connects.

“Phee?!”

“Lila, how’d you know—”

“
IT’S HER!
” she screams, and I know she’s not talking to me. There’s a muffled sound, like the phone’s being ripped out of her hand, and then his voice breaks over the line.

“
Where are you?
”

His words are guttural, harsh. The sound of a man at his breaking point.

My eyes move to the sign at the intersection and I hiccup out the cross street. The words are barely out when he barks again.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice small.

“Stay there. Don’t move a single fucking inch from that spot.” He’s breathing hard, like he’s running. “I’m coming.”

Enough with the sex positions. Why can’t magazines

publish an article about
reading
positions that

don’t get uncomfortable after five minutes?

Phoebe West, while perusing an issue of COSMO.

I don’t know what speeding laws he breaks or how he manages it, but five minutes later a black Viper screams around a corner and slams to a halt in front of me. He’s out of the car and around the hood before I can even gain my feet. His expression is scarier than I’ve ever seen it — taut with tension, dark with fury. It makes his Badass Mercenary look seem downright friendly. His eyes though — they’re the most frightening. Because when he catches sight of me, shaking like a leaf in my little black dress, bruised and battered and bleeding… the unrelenting wrath burning on the surface of his irises shifts to reveal something else.

Fear.

Pure, unadulterated fear.

Nathaniel Knox is afraid.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I always thought the day I saw Nate afraid of something would be the day Satan enjoyed a nice, cold ice cream sundae in Hell. And I certainly never thought it would be because of
me
.

“I’m fine,” I murmur, a second before he reaches me.

He doesn’t respond. He’s too busy running his hands over my limbs, checking for injuries, scanning to see if the scrapes on my arms need serious medical attention.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, my voice stronger as he crouches to move his hands down my legs, pausing to examine my ravaged knees. “Nate, I said I’m okay.”

He doesn’t respond. I don’t even know if he can hear me, he’s so far gone right now. Which isn’t good — not when we’re standing out on a street corner, exposed and vulnerable.

I take a deep breath and gather my courage. Too weary to talk myself out of it, I lift one shaking hand and thread it through his hair. My fingers are dirty - the nails ripped from falling on concrete, the cuticles torn and bleeding, the skin coated with dust and grass stains. I barely register any of that as my hand twines through his short, dark locks, just as I’ve dreamed of doing for years.

He freezes the instant I touch him.

“I’m fine, Nate,” I whisper again. “I’m
fine
.”

A sound, almost like a growl, slides from his lips as my hand moves lightly through his hair. To my surprise, it’s soft. Silkier than I’d imagined.

After a moment, he moves. His grip is a little too rough, his touch a little too furious, as his hands slide from my knees around to the back of my thighs, pulling me into him until there’s no space between us. There’s desperation in his touch, like he can’t quite believe I’m in his arms. His fingers dig harshly into my skin, sending tiny aches flaring through me.

I don’t mind. I’m not even embarrassed about my stained clothes or dirty body. Right now, I get the sense he needs to touch me. To reassure himself that I’m real.

His face hits my stomach, his hands find the small of my back, and then… he’s
hugging
me.

Nathaniel Knox is on his knees on a littered street corner, hugging me like he thinks I might disappear. Like the slightest loosening of his hold will let me vanish into thin air.

“Nate,” I whisper, both my hands in his hair, now. His face presses tighter against the fabric of my torn dress, forehead digging into the soft flesh just below my ribcage.

This moment — this
man
— does something to me. Sends a pang through my heart, a knife of longing through my soul.

“I’m fine,” I say for the millionth time, like a mantra, even though it’s a lie. “I’m fine.”

He ignores me. He’s receded into a place I can’t reach. A place where words are meaningless and touch is all that matters. All that’s real.

My hands move to cup his cheeks, feeling stubble and sharp angles beneath my stained fingertips.

“Nate…” I whisper, wishing he’d look at me. “I’m okay. I’m alive. Bruises will fade, cuts will heal. But right now, we really need to go because I don’t know if they’re going to come back, or if—”

“
I’m going to kill him.
”

His words are muffled but that doesn’t dilute their ferocity in the slightest.

Okay. He’s speaking. That’s progress, right?

Yes, the things he’s saying are really freaking
scary,
but…

“Nate, really—”

“He’s a fucking dead man.”

Hooooooooly shit.

My heart pounds at the total calm in his tone. He’s not bluffing or exaggerating. He’s deadly serious.

This man could kill with his bare hands, without flinching.

And it doesn’t change how I feel about him in the slightest.

What does it say about me?

I swallow hard and push the thoughts away.

“We have to go, love,” I whisper, voice cracking on the endearment I didn’t mean to let slip out.

He flinches when it hits him. Like I’ve struck him.

I sigh. “Nate.”

He’s a statue at my feet.

“I told you I was fine, but that’s not exactly true,” I say, needing to get him to focus.

It works. He goes totally tense again, arms turning to steel around me. His face pulls back and tilts up, so his eyes are on mine for the first time in minutes. I stifle a gasp at the ghosts swimming in his gaze.

He’s not pretty — he’s haunted
, Lila’s voice whispers in my head.

She was right.

His eyes are a black hole — infinite, bottomless, and teeming with darkness.

“You’re not fine,” he repeats finally, his voice low, thick with emotion.

I shake my head. “See, I have to pee. I’m thirsty. I could really use a shower. And I also have to check on Boo, because I’m worried no one has taken him for walkies or fed him the entire time I was kidnapped, and he’s probably pooped on my new Anthropologie rug. Which would suck, because they have a really strict return policy, and—”

“You’re fine,” he says, some life coming back into his eyes – as though he’s witnessing a miracle firsthand.

“I’m fine,” I echo, trying to smile at him. The movement makes one of the splits in my lips reopen, and I feel a trickle of blood drip down my chin.

He’s on his feet, looming over me, before I’ve had a chance to blink. His eyes watch the trickle as his hand comes up to cup my face. I feel the swipe of his thumb against my chin as he wipes it clean. When he pulls his palm away, he stares at it for a long time — my blood on his hand.

“He’ll never touch you again.” The words hold a dark promise. “Never.”

I shiver. “Nate—”

His eyes lift to mine as he takes a careful step back from me, relinquishing his hold for the first time since he arrived.

“We should go.” His words are flat.

“We should,” I agree.

Neither of us moves. We stare at each other for a long moment, not knowing quite what to say or where to look or how to deal with the crushing memory of his arms around my waist and my hands in his hair still crowding out every other thought. I’d seen his ghosts swirling in his eyes; he’d heard mine in the cracking endearment on my lips. In that desperate, aching moment, with all the bullshit stripped away, we’d come together and crossed an irrefutable line of demarcation.

I worried there was no going back.

“You were wrong, you know,” I murmur after a while, because there’s nothing else to say.

His brows lift in question.

“I actually
can
run for my life in these heels.” My voice is smug. “Like a pro.”

His eyes crinkle a tiny bit at the corners and I know I’ve brought him back from whatever dark place he was stuck in.

There he is.

“Let’s get you home,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the passenger side.

“Okay,” I whisper, not knowing if he’s talking about his place or mine, and not caring one bit either way.

***

I must’ve fallen asleep in the car, because when I wake up I’m in bed.

Not my bed, either.

A man’s bed. Dark gray sheets, sparse wooden headboard, not a single decorative throw pillow to be found. My face turns on the pillowcase and the scent of smoke and leather and
Nate
floods my senses.

I’m in his bed.

I sit up abruptly, sending the sheets flying. Chilled air hits my skin and I look down to discover I’m practically naked except for my strapless black bra and a pair of what looks like men’s boxers. They’re huge on me — rolled at least three times at the hips to keep them in place — but that’s the least of my concerns.

I’m wearing Nate’s boxers.

Which means… someone took me out of my panties and
put me
in Nate’s boxers. And that someone was probably…

“You’re awake.”

At the sound of his voice, my gaze flies toward the doorway where he’s leaning, arms crossed over his chest and intent eyes locked on my face. When they flicker down to my exposed body for a fraction of an instant, I squeak like Boo’s favorite duck toy and scramble to pull the sheet up over the girls.

I lift my eyes back to Nate’s, fully expecting to find them crinkled up at the corners. Instead, there’s a look in them that makes my breath catch and my throat close.

Fearlustangerhopesadnessguiltrelief
.

“Nate…” My voice catches on his name and his eyes shutter.

“How are you feeling?” The words are halting.

“I’m fine.”

He stares at me, calling my bluff.

I sigh. “Fine. I’m tired. Somewhat sore. My eye feels about six times its normal size,” I admit. “Nothing that won’t heal.”

“We need to talk about what happened.”

“I know,” I say softly, eyes dropping to the sheet spread over my legs. “Can I clean up first?” I ask, voice shaky.

I hear a sound — half sigh, half curse — and then he’s there, sitting on the edge of the bed just inches from me. Without lifting my eyes, I can see his thigh, encased in black denim, so close I could reach out and stroke it.

He clears his throat harshly.

“Do you…” He breaks off. When I lift my eyes again, I see his hands are tight fists at his sides. “Do you need help? I can call someone. Lila, Gemma… Or I can…” He pulls in a breath. “I can help you shower.”

He’s trying to be considerate, but I gulp at the idea of Nate running his hands across my wet, naked skin.

“I’ll manage,” I say shakily, eyes on his.

He nods and rises to his feet.

“Bathroom’s through there.” He gestures at the door. “Fresh towels on the shelf. Some clothes you can borrow.”

“Okay.”

He disappears without another word.

***

“Drink this.”

He slides a glass of water across the butcher-block counter. It’s a thick slab of dark-stained wood, matching the other oak accents throughout his loft. As I drain my glass, I look around.

The space is an open plan — a former industrial building, most likely — with big glass-block windows, exposed brick walls, and matte-black painted air ducts crisscrossing the ceiling. The furniture is sparse — only his bed, a black leather couch, and some bar stools pulled up to the kitchen island, with a tiny bathroom tucked into the far corner. No photographs, no knickknacks, no clutter.

I’ve seen monks’ quarters with more personality.

Soft track lights illuminate the space. It’s still dark outside, which means I only slept for an hour or so before my shower. I should’ve slept longer, but my dreams were full of images that made me shiver awake.

I set the glass down on the wood counter and he quickly refills it.

“Another,” he orders, sliding it back to me.

I don’t protest — I’m thirsty. I drain the glass in a few gulps. When I finish, I catch him staring at my eye. I know it’s swollen. I saw it in the bathroom mirror after my shower and almost screamed. My eyes haven’t been this black since my preteen emo-punk phase.

“One more,” he says, reaching for the glass again and filling it to the brim.

“I’m good,” I tell him, feeling more myself. And by
more myself
I mean
not in the mood to be bossed around
.

“West—”

“Back to last names, are we?” I roll my eyes. “I’m not thirsty,
Knox
.”

He stares at me, eyes hard. “You spent twenty-four hours without fluids. You’re dehydrated.”

“I was in a damp basement, not the Sahara. I’ll live.”

His eyes narrow. “Where?”

“What?”

“Where was the basement?”

I sigh. “I don’t know. We ran for a long time, when we got out. Blocks and blocks. Over a mile, I’d guess.”