Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel) (7 page)

ELEVEN

Nash

I thought when I finally got to come out of hiding, when I finally got to
live
, I’d never have a reason to go back. Ever. To any part of the life I’ve had for these last seven years.

But I was wrong.

Of course, I never imagined that Dad would want us to give up the fight, that he’d be content to rot in prison and let Mom’s killer go free. But then again, he’s known who killed her all along.

My stomach clenches at the thought of Duffy. My fingers ache with the remembered desire to wrap my hands around his throat and look him in the eye as I squeeze the life out of him.

But Duffy’s just one man. Even though he’s technically the one who killed my mother with that bomb, whether he intended to or not, he’s just one of several who were ultimately behind Mom’s death and all the hell that followed. My thirst for revenge won’t be satisfied until they’re all dead or in prison. Maybe Dad knows that. Maybe that’s why he wants us to give it up. Maybe it’s a lifelong pursuit, trying to get to the bottom. Or the top, rather.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m not giving it up. Not ever. I can’t. It would kill too much of me, of who I was and who I am, to let it go. So I’ll see it through. No matter what it takes or how long I have to fight, I’ll see it through.

After dropping Cash and Olivia back at Dual, I drive the quick trip across town to the train station. I stopped there on my way into town and got myself a locker. Having no roots to speak of makes it a little more difficult to keep important things safe. Even some people
with
roots choose locations such as these to keep valuable things out of harm’s way. Like Dad, for instance. It was at this very train station that he’d stashed his bag of goodies.

My smile is wry and a little hostile when I think to myself that it’s probably a good thing only one of us boys followed so closely in Dad’s footsteps. I just always assumed if either of us turned out to be a criminal or turned out to possess criminal tendencies, it would be Cash. I think everyone assumed that. In a way, I guess Nash really
did
die the day of the explosion. The guy he was and the guy he would’ve grown to be are dead. Both of them. Gone forever. The question is: Who am I? Who rose to take their place?

Pushing those troubling thoughts aside, I find a place to park in the lot outside the station. Glancing casually over my shoulder, a habit I doubt I’ll ever break, I make my way into the building and over to the small stand of lockers to the left. I’d picked a locker number I’d remember easily. Number four thirteen. Mom’s birthday. April thirteenth.

As always, when I think of her birthday, I think of the day she died. As if that’s ever far from my mind. But sometimes it’s more . . . poignant. The guilt of surviving when I should’ve died, of being the douche on the dock filming a topless girl rather than on the boat where he should’ve been, eats at me. She shouldn’t have been alone. She shouldn’t have died alone. I should’ve been with her. But I wasn’t. I was spared. And look what’s become of me. The world would be a much better place if she’d lived and I’d been the one blown to bits that day.

But that’s not the way it worked out. So the least I can do is bring the culprits to justice. One way or the other.

I pull a small key with an orange top out of my boot. It’s nondescript. If someone were to ever find it, they’d never know where it came from or, if they happened to figure it out somehow, what locker it fits.

It slides easily into the lock and I turn it until the door pops open. Inside is a black bag with a few emergency supplies and a couple of phones. One of them is very important. Like the one Dad had left us, it has all sorts of numbers that I might need at some point. I had hoped I’d never have to use any of them, but I kept them for a reason. Because things rarely go as planned. Dammit.

It also contains another copy of the footage from the dock. There are a few other odds and ends stored on it. Things that could easily get me killed. Things about weapons and smugglers and routes I should know nothing about. But I do. There’s enough insurance here to save my life a dozen times over. Or cost it. Depends on who has the phone. And who knows what’s on it. Right now, it’s only me. And that’s how I plan to keep it. Trust no one. I’ve survived a long time on that motto. It’s kept me safe. Alive.

I power the phone up and scroll through the list of contacts until I find Dmitry’s number. I text it to a second phone, that of a burner that also resides in the locker. One of several burner phones, actually. Someone in my line of work and with my family history can never have too many. I get them with no GPS and very limited . . . everything. I can use them, then trash them, leaving no trace that could ever lead back to me.

After another casual assessment of my surroundings, I secure the locker and drop the key back in my boot. I take the burner phone to an empty bench and hit the send button.

It rings several times before a familiar gruff voice says three short, heavily accented words.

“Leave me message.” A beep follows.

“It’s Nikolai,” I begin. It’s the name Dmitry gave me from the moment we met. I had to be someone other than Greg Davenport’s son, Nash. I had to be someone else entirely. “I, uh, I need to talk to you. It’s really something I’d rather discuss in person, though. If you can make it to the place I first met you, about the same time, in two days, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks, Dmitry.”

I hang up, knowing he’ll understand my message perfectly. And I know in two days, he’ll be there if at all possible. The boat shouldn’t be pulling out for another week or so, so it should be no problem for him to get there.

Punching a few keys to erase all traces of the text and the call, I get up and walk toward the exit, nonchalantly dropping the phone in a trash can as I pass.

As I make my way back to Cash’s car, my mind flickers back over the past seven years’ worth of conversations with Dmitry. He told me dozens of stories involving him and Dad. Nothing too scandalous; just mischief they got into in the early years. Evidently they both got into the business about the same time.

They made their way through the ranks, my father eventually going into the money-laundering side, Dmitry into the smuggling side. They remained friends and confidants, which is why Dad had Dmitry as an emergency exit strategy. It’s not that he would’ve risked our safety with a smuggler; it’s just that he trusted Dmitry above all others.

And now I’m about to trust Dmitry. And I’m about to ask for his help. It’s a big favor, one that he might not be willing to grant, but it’s worth asking. Things might’ve degraded to where he’s one of three or four linchpins on which our only shot of making this right depends. Only time will tell, but I have to start somewhere. I have to do something. I need a plan A and a plan B. I can’t let this go. And even though Cash said he has no intention of letting it go, I don’t trust that it’s as important to him to see this through. At least not as important as it is to me. I just don’t trust anyone that much. Not even family. I’ve been on my own too long for that to change. Maybe one day. But I doubt it.

My conscience prickles. Here I am, hesitating to fully trust anyone when I myself would be considered by most to be untrustworthy. I’ve become so driven, I let very little get in my way, especially if it’s a matter of something like “right” standing in the path of what I want or need. The life that I was forced into is one of survival of the fittest with a take-no-prisoners kind of attitude. It’s hard to shake those habits and make a smooth return to the civilized world.

A pair of bright blue eyes watches me from the back of my mind. My conscience stabs me again. I wonder what she’d think if she knew everything. Everything I’ve done.

Especially the things that involve her.

Unlocking the car, I slide behind the wheel and put all such deep, bothersome thoughts out of my head. Some things aren’t good to dwell on. This is one of them.

Pushing the start button on Cash’s BMW, I pull out of the parking lot and turn back toward his condo. I need to work out two plans, down to the last detail. I can’t afford surprises. One of them
has to
succeed.

* * *

After a few hours spent researching on the computer, I’m very ready for a break, even if that break involves a tuxedo and a bunch of rich assholes. I don’t give a shit about them; it’s Marissa I’m looking forward to spending time with. And I’m not even going to pretend my motives aren’t one hundred percent selfish.

I need a delicious, feminine body to lose myself in, to bury my troubles in. Even if it’s just for a little while. And although I could probably find any number of willing partners, she’s the one I want. For many reasons, one of which, I’m sure, is the fact that she’s a spoiled little rich girl.

I know I could probably go there right now and have sex with her, but I’m enjoying this little game we’ve got going on that’s leading up to it. It’s another form of distraction, and I welcome it. I don’t mind getting all dressed up to continue playing just as long as she doesn’t start expecting more. I’ve already warned her about me. I hope she’s not fool enough to ignore that warning.

I tug at the snug collar of my crisp, white shirt. I’ve worn a tuxedo exactly one time in my life. My junior prom. I don’t remember it feeling nearly so constrictive. As I shrug my shoulders inside the perfectly cut material, I realize it’s not the suit that’s suffocating me; it’s life.

I’m not adjusting nearly as well as I’d imagined I would. I had this vision of landing back in real life as if no time had passed, as if nothing had happened and I was the same guy I was when I left. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is called denial. Ain’t she a bitch?

I’m a few minutes early when I reach Marissa’s door. I try the knob, but it’s locked.

At least she’s got
some
kind of brain!

I could use the key on Cash’s set, but I don’t. I ring the bell instead.

It takes her a couple of minutes to answer. I guess beauty like hers takes time. And when she flips the lock and appears in the open doorway, I realize it’s worth every second.

Damn, she’s gorgeous.

Marissa’s tall, lean body is wrapped in a black dress that was made to hug her. From where the strap sits on only one shoulder to where the material loosens just past her knees and falls to the floor, it fits her like a second skin. Every sleek curve is perfectly delineated, and the strappy heels she’s wearing make her legs look that much longer.

Her blond hair looks like a platinum wave gushing over her one bare shoulder, and her skin glows like liquid gold. But it’s those damn eyes that get me. Vivid blue orbs that look both innocent and seductive all at the same time. And she’s always watching me with them. Curiously. Intently. I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s imagining. If she’s remembering . . .

I know it’s probably just my conscience playing tricks again. After what I’ve done. Surely she can’t know. But still, I wonder.

“You look stunning,” I say in a moment of honesty.

Her lips part in an even more stunning smile. “Thank you. And you look very handsome. As always.”

I’ll admit I cleaned up a little. But not much. I could’ve gone all out and cut my hair and shaved my face. But I didn’t. And I won’t. I’m still too much of a bastard to do anything drastic like that just to pretend to be Cash (when he’s pretending to be me). Nobody’s that important. Including her. But I did comb my hair back neatly and tuck it behind my ears. And I trimmed my goatee and shaved around it. I’m sure I still look like someone who should never be allowed into a high-society function, tuxedo or not. But they can all kiss my ass. I’m going anyway.

My motives aren’t totally selfish, I guess. By doing this, by going with her, I’ll be proving a point to Marissa about how strong she is. Or isn’t. Taking someone like me to an event like this will push her further one way or the other. Which way is hard to tell.

I refuse to think about any other reasons, deep-seated ones, that might have played a role in my attendance tonight. I can’t afford to let myself feel anything for a damn woman. And that’s that.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

TWELVE

Marissa

How twins can look so much alike yet so different is beyond me. Maybe it’s just his personality that makes him seem so different, but to me, Nash is nothing like Cash. Not at all. I always thought Cash (when I thought he was Nash) was good looking, but he doesn’t hold a candle to the real Nash. He’s breathtaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sexier man. And even in his tuxedo you can see that he belongs in a black leather jacket, perched on the back of a motorcycle. It’s who he is, right down to his bones.

Dangerous.

“Let me get my things and we can go,” I say quickly, turning to head back to my room. My fingers are shaking anxiously when I throw a lipstick, my keys, a compact, and my debit card into a black sequined clutch and snap it shut.

I pause in front of the mirror and take a deep breath. Why do I feel like I’m walking into an inferno? A moth drawn inexplicably to the brutal flame?

I have no illusions about him. I can’t blame it on any lack of understanding. I know Nash is just that—brutal. But I can’t stay away. Despite the danger, I don’t even want to. It doesn’t make any sense, and I’m not going to try to make it. I’m just gonna run with it. For once in my life, I’m jumping.

Closing my eyes against my troubling thoughts, I make my way back out to Nash. Back out to the flame.

* * *

I think the valet is actually afraid to take the tip Nash hands him. His eyes flit nervously to me, to Nash, and then quickly away before he reaches hesitantly for the folded bill. With a shy nod, he stuffs it in his pocket, hops in the car, and drives very slowly to the parking lot. I hide my smile behind my hand. I bet he makes sure the car is in perfect condition when he brings it back.

Nash joins me at the curb and offers me his arm, a gesture that shows me he knows how to comport himself in company like the people he’s getting ready to meet. And that he’s not going to be totally obtuse.

“Shall we?”

His brow is raised in mockery. I smile and tip my head at him, slipping my hand under his elbow.

My stomach jumps around anxiously. Part of it is the close proximity to Nash. But that’s nothing new. If he’s anywhere around, my focus is almost entirely centered on him. The other part of it is something that has nothing to do with Nash or his effect on me.

I acknowledge with more than a little disappointment that it’s worry, worry that he will do or say something to make a fool of himself. Or me. Or, worse, Daddy.

I remind myself that the new me shouldn’t even care about that. Olivia wouldn’t give something so superficial a second thought. And neither should I.

But old habits die hard. And mine have been in the grave for only a few hours. I don’t want any parts of that woman to be resurrected. I desperately want the old me to stay dead.

Putting on my most confident smile, I glance at Nash, walking cockily at my side, and we make our way toward the lectern to sign in.

The first person to spot us when we walk into the main room is Millicent Strobe, quite possibly one of
the
most vapid “friends” I have. Evidently she was in the process of exiting one conversation and moving to another, one with a couple situated more in my direction. She rudely abandons them, however, and changes course for, you guessed it,
me
.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she says in her sugary– sweet way. Her smile is too wide and her eyes too curious as she looks at Nash. She leans in for air kisses to both my cheeks. “A kitty and her chew toy.” She laughs her tinkling, fake laugh and lays her red-nailed hand on Nash’s arm. “Kidding.”

Only she wasn’t. Kidding, that is. The look she gives Nash, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, is full of disdain.

“Who’s this? Nash’s career-criminal brother?” She laughs her fake laugh again, and I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. I shouldn’t have worried about Nash embarrassing anybody; I should’ve worried about the people I already knew embarrassing
us
.

“As a matter of fact . . .” Nash says quietly from my side. At first I think I misunderstood him, but when I glance up at him, I see that his expression is stoic, serious. He’s willfully provoking her.

“Now
he’s
kidding, Leese,” I interject lightly, laughing as well and using the pet name her close friends have used for years. “This is, um, Cash, Nash’s brother.”

My heart is a jackhammer inside my chest, determined to beat ruthlessly through the wall of my ribs. We didn’t discuss what we’d tell people. I assumed we’d still go with him being Cash, but . . . not like this.

“Yes. Nash. I remember him well. The question is: Do you? Why would you leave him at home on a night like tonight?” Left unspoken is what she really means—
and bring
this guy
instead
.

My father never bothered to hide his fondness for Nash and his desire to make him part of the Townsend empire. We live a very public life in some ways, which means that most everyone knows we broke up, too. The thing is, not one of them probably expected me to disregard my father’s wishes. They would expect me to appear here with Nash on my arm by whatever means. Because no one defies a man with my father’s kind of influence.

No one.

I hear the first syllable of Nash’s rebuttal. With my eyes on Millicent, I swallow hard, fix my smile in place, and dig my nails into Nash’s arm, a silent plea for him not to say whatever he’s thinking of saying. I hear the angry huff of his breath, but he doesn’t utter another sound, not a single word. I can practically feel the cool air emanating from him, though. He doesn’t like being muzzled.

“This was last-minute and Nash had something else planned.
Technically
, I’m not even supposed to be back in the country,” I say conspiratorially.

“Then why are you?”

“Some, um, some personal things came up that needed my attention.”

“Personal things, huh?” I know that look in her eye. It’s the same look a shark gets when it scents blood in the water.

Damn you, why didn’t you think of how to handle all this
before
you got here?
I chastise myself, albeit far too late.

“Yes, you remember what those are, right? Before we were suddenly expected to live our life in public?”

“When was that? When we were two years old?”

“Exactly.” I laugh again, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

Millicent grew up in a privileged family, much as I did, with certain . . . expectations. She knows exactly what I mean. The problem is, she hasn’t realized that it’s a crappy way to live. Mainly because she hasn’t been shown how awful of a life it is, what awful people it’s made us. But I have. I have no excuse to act like that anymore, to act like her.

“As daughters of some of the most influential men and women in this state, we have certain responsibilities and . . . appearances to uphold. Or have you forgotten that as well?”

Is she really going to do this? Could I ever have called someone like
this
a friend?

It horrifies me to think that things were even worse than I’d suspected.

“I could never disgrace my family,” she adds scathingly.

I can’t decide if she’s insinuating that arriving with
this
Nash, as Cash, is disgracing my family or if it’s just my oversensitivity. Am I making more of the undertones than what she’s intending? I’ve known Millicent most of my adult life. I can’t imagine her being this person. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe my guilty conscience is making me see things that aren’t really there.

But then another part of me speaks up, asking if I
am
, in fact, being incredibly disrespectful and inconsiderate of my family by showing up like this with “Cash.” I knew Daddy wanted me to bring Nash, but I also knew he would undoubtedly rather I come alone than with someone whose . . . questionable nature might bring him shame.

It’s ridiculous that it would even be a consideration, but it’s just part of the world in which we live. Isn’t it?

My heart pumps with guilt, but over what? Daddy? Nash? That I’m actually having to
think
about what’s right here?

But then something else kicks in. Something foreign. And scary. But something welcome. And right.

I give Millicent my sweetest smile. “Well, I hardly think disgracing people who don’t even have the common decency to be polite is something I’ll lose sleep over.” Her mouth drops open in shock. Before she can recover enough to reply, I lean in and whisper, “Be careful that you don’t fall off that pedestal, Millicent. A tumble like that could break bones.”

I straighten, shoot her another syrupy smile, and then promptly turn my back on her.

My brief moment of triumph over my former self is quickly dashed when my eyes collide with my father’s. He’s standing on the other side of the room, watching me, quiet fury on his face.

Impulsively, I raise my chin, a statement in and of itself. And Daddy will know exactly what it means.

Slowly, he shakes his head. One sharp gesture that speaks as loudly as mine did. And I feel it like tremors of an earthquake all the way down to my soul.

For a few terrifying seconds, I feel like crumbling. Crumbling under the pressure of who I was, of what’s expected of me and what I’ve done tonight. But before I can, Nash steps in to save me from myself.

Fingers touch my elbow.

“How ’bout a drink to wash down all that bitterness?” he asks.

I have to make an effort to swallow my huge sigh of relief. When I look up at him to accept his kind offer, I see the faint light of respect in his eyes. Or do I? Could it be that I’m imagining it? Maybe because I want so badly to see it? I can’t be sure. Either way, it feels good. It feels good to finally have the respect, no matter how minute, of someone who thought so little of me. Of someone who knew what kind of person I was.

Was.

Maybe that’s why he’s saving me. Because that’s what he’s doing by offering me this escape route. He’s saving me. Even though it seems he’s not the saving type, he stepped up to do it. Twice now.

The first, of course, was when he showed up with Cash to rescue me. I can still remember hearing his voice, so distinguishable from Cash’s. So stern yet so safe. Familiar, but not in the way I would’ve expected. I felt protected all the way home, even though he hardly spoke. And now, here he is doing it again, tonight.

But why? Why now?

The answer comes as quickly as the question.

Maybe it’s because now he thinks I’m worth saving.

Pushing the troubling thoughts aside, I opt for a bright smile. “Thank you. I’d love one.”

As he leads me away, I glance back over my shoulder to see Millicent flounce off to rejoin her fiancé, Richardson “Rick” Pyle, whom she’d left behind when she spotted me. I’m sure she’ll give him an earful as soon as it’s acceptable to do so. It won’t be long before, one by one, everyone I know is given a perverted version of what just happened. And guess who the bad guy will be? Nash’s voice penetrates the chaos in my mind. “Not the cakewalk you thought it’d be, huh?” he asks quietly. I glance up at him again. He’s facing forward, but I imagine his expression is one of smugness. It’s upsetting when I realize that, despite what just happened, Nash doubts that I’m strong enough to change. That I
have
changed.

The realization is a devastating blow to my fragile confidence. I say nothing to him because, on some level, I’m wondering the same thing. Can I really change? Should it be this much of a struggle? Or am I just as irrevocably damaged as these people?

We stop in front of the elegantly appointed bar. Without asking what I’d like, Nash orders—a vodka martini, dirty, for me and a Heineken for him. I wait until the bartender is busy fixing my drink before I say anything.

“Are you just that good? Or am I just that easy to read?”

Nash shrugs. “You seem like a martini girl.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, his expression dark and steamy. “And, when you’re not kissing ass, I’d say you’re a dirty one.”

I brush off the first part of his comment and focus on the latter half. I feel my face flush. It spreads all the way down my chest, making me feel hot and damp. I resist the urge to fan.

I don’t know how to respond to his suggestive assessment, so I simply don’t. “You don’t seem like a beer guy. I would’ve thought something harder.”

The words are out before I realize my response is every bit as suggestive as his was.

Ohmigod!

“I can get a lot harder,” he says in his low, velvety voice. “But tonight, I think drinking a beer will cement their trashy impression of me.”

“So you
want
them to think you’re less than them?”

“No, they can think whatever the hell they want. I’m
definitely
not less than them, regardless of my hair or my drink. I ordered a beer because, not only do I happen to like it, I also get a kick out of knowing that it bugs the shit out of these judgmental assholes having someone like me, someone with long hair and tattoos, walking around at their fancy party.”

I can see by the twist at the corner of his mouth that he’s pleased with himself and his rebellion. I wish I could be so blasé about what they think and how they judge. But right now, I can’t. I have to fight it every step of the way. Every
baby
step of the way.

Maybe one day I’ll get there. Maybe.

So many
maybe
s lately, and I keep piling them on. The disequilibrium of it, the uncertainty of it suddenly feels like a suffocating hand over my mouth, much like the one that I felt just before I passed out and woke up in captivity a few days ago.

Panic sets in and a cold sweat pops out on my forehead. All I can think of is the need for air. And wide open spaces.

Freedom.

Frantic, I search for a way out. I spot the balcony doors directly across the room, behind Nash. The never-ending expanse of black night just beyond them looks like heaven.

“I think I need some air,” I say before I set off in that direction, not waiting for Nash’s response.

Thankfully, the balcony is empty when I step out onto it. I go straight to the railing and lean my hip against it. Reaching out, I lay one palm along the cool wrought iron, letting the refreshing temperature of the metal permeate the rest of my body like a soothing summer breeze.