Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel) (8 page)

I remind myself I’m safe, that I’m here in this moment, not back in the most terrifying one of my life.

I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.

“Are you okay?”

Nash’s voice is a barely discernible rumble in the moonlight.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Something happened. Tell me what it was.”

He’s about as sensitive and tactful as a bull in a china shop, stating the obvious and then demanding answers. But I know that’s just the way he is. I’m not sure he’s capable of more. Or ever will be. Nash is hard, rougher around the edges than probably anyone I know. And profoundly broken, I think.

But then again, so am I.

I turn around, putting the rail at my back, ready to give him some semblance of an answer, but the words die on my tongue. He’s standing in front of me, taking a sip of his beer, watching me with his raven eyes. Something about the scene—the balcony, the balmy air, the beer, Nash, me—seems so familiar. It’s almost like déjà vu.

A gush of warmth sweeps through me, stealing my breath. I have no idea where it came from or why, but I’m so aroused I feel hot all over. And moist.

“What is it?” he asks, his eyebrows knit together in a frown.

“I don’t know. Something about you and . . . and this balcony and you drinking beer . . . I don’t know. It’s just . . . I don’t know.
Familiar
almost. Weird,” I say casually, trying to blow if off, but feeling anything but nonchalant.

Don’t tear his clothes off! Don’t tear his clothes off!

My palm is sweaty beneath the bowl of my glass. The fingers of my other hand curl around the wrought iron at my back when he takes a step closer to me.

He stops only inches from me. He stares down into my face for a moment, thoughtfully, before he raises his beer bottle to my mouth and rolls it across my bottom lip. “Yeah. Weird.”

We stay like this for a couple of torturous minutes. All I can think about is how much I want him to kiss me, to touch me, to take me in his arms and drown out every
thing
and every
one
else.

But he doesn’t. Without a word, he steps back, turns slightly to the side, and takes another swig of his beer.

Almost like he didn’t feel a thing.

THIRTEEN

Nash

“So, why have you never asked questions about me and Cash? Why weren’t you surprised, or at least confused, when I drove you to your father’s house after the kidnapping? You can’t tell me you didn’t at least wonder who I was.” I stare out into the night, careful to keep my eyes off her.

I hope Marissa doesn’t think my abrupt change of subject is suspicious. I didn’t want her to keep thinking about the balcony. She’s getting too close. Too close to a memory I don’t want her to find. Too close to something I want to forget. But something I
can’t
forget.

I force it from my mind, determined not to think on it. I see now that it was a mistake to follow her out here.

I can’t help but be curious what she knows, though. If that’s why I catch her staring at me so often. What will she think of me if she ever puts two and two together?

“I’ll admit it was shocking to see you, but more shocking than confusing because I already knew what was going on.”

I turn my head slightly, just enough to see her. I arch my brow. “And you expect me to believe that? That you just figured it out?”

She frowns. “Oh. No. That’s not how it happened. I found out while I was being held captive. I overheard two men talking.”

“Ahhh,” I say. That makes much more sense. Marissa is astute enough to catch on, but I’m sure Cash limited the amount of time he let anyone who knew him see him as both Cash and Nash. He wouldn’t take a reckless risk like that. It would have been difficult for Marissa to realize the truth—especially when she had no reason to suspect he was playing both brothers. When I think of her answer, though, it still doesn’t make sense. No one should’ve known until
after
we had possession of Marissa. “Exactly what did they say?”

“Just that one of their plants had called in the night before and said that one of you had been pretending to be both twins, but that the other one—the real one—was back.”

“A ‘plant’?”

She nods again. “That’s what he said. Or at least that’s what it sounded like he said. He had a very thick accent.”

“Russian?”

“Yes, it sounded like it.”

I feel my frown deepen right along with my concern. “And this guy said the plant called in the night before? When was it that you overheard this?”

“Um, the day you brought me home, I think. They kept me bound and gagged and blindfolded almost the entire time, so my sense of time is skewed. When I think back to those hours, I can’t . . . seem . . . to . . .”

A shiver passes through her and she closes her eyes for a second. It’s plain to see she’s still shaken by the whole thing. I’m sure most people in her position would be. She just puts on such a good front that it’s easy to forget she’s been through a traumatic experience. And very recently, too. I guess with everything that’s going on, the movement of time seems, by turns, inordinately fast or inordinately slow.

I suppose all of our lives are in a kind of holding pattern until we get this over and done with, and behind us. And, like it or not, we’re all in this together. These bastards have adversely affected and touched each of our lives.

I think over the timeline. If she’s remembering correctly, that means someone tipped off the Russians on Sunday. Presumably after I arrived in town. That means they have eyes on the club most likely, which doesn’t surprise me. But was it merely someone in the club, a patron? Or was it someone . . . closer? Closer to Cash? Someone on the
inside
?

He’s been pretty cautious, so I’m inclined to think it was someone watching him and watching his life from the perspective of a clubber.

I growl through my gritted teeth.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Cash is a godda—” I catch myself before I finish the phrase. I guess some parts of the old me never died, like the ingrained urge to watch my language around a lady. “He’s a damned idiot for trusting any of you people.”

“Any of ‘you people,’” she says, clearly taking exception. “I know you can’t possibly mean me.”

“And why the hell not? You might be the worst one of them all.”

“How could you even say that? I’ve done nothing to deserve your distrust.”

I scoff. “Maybe not, but you’ve done nothing to earn my trust, either.”

“So not telling anyone who you
really
are isn’t enough to rate a little trust?”

“Hell no! It serves your purposes just as much as mine. I can just imagine the kind of social shitstorm you’d stir up if you told anybody about the man you
thought
was Nash.” My laugh is bitter. “No, don’t act like you’re doing me some big favor. Your motives are selfish, just like the rest of us.”

“You can’t go through life not trusting anyone.”

“Watch me,” I snap.

She looks wounded, no doubt some kind of feminine ploy practiced specifically to manipulate. Well, it won’t work on me. She’s not getting under my skin. I want her; that’s no secret. But that’s the only thing I’m interested in—sex. Nothing more. I even did the right thing and warned her about me. If she chooses to ignore that warning, that’s on her.

“I think this was a mistake,” she says, her voice small in the heavy air.

“Let me give you a valuable tip about people and life. Everybody wants something. Everybody. As soon as you can get that through your head, the better off you’ll be.”

She looks down at her hands as she toys with the stem of her martini glass. “And what is it that you want?”

“Revenge,” I bite out. “Justice.” She nods slowly but doesn’t look back up at me. Again, I think of my goal to have those long, long legs wrapped around me. I should hide it from her. Woo her instead. No doubt it’s what the high-society types expect. But that’s exactly why I won’t do either. I want to shock her. I want her to know that I change for no one. I yield to no one. “And a few hours alone with you.”

I want her to be clear about my intentions. Because we will be sleeping together. And sooner rather than later. I’m the kind to take what I want. She needs to know that.

It won’t change anything. I know when a woman is already mine. And this one is.

Much to her detriment, probably. But again, that’s on her. She can’t say I didn’t warn her.

* * *

On our way out, Marissa does her best to stick to the wall and dodge virtually everyone in the room. Again, I think to myself that this isn’t easy for her, letting this life go, letting this person go. And this is just the first night. What does she think will happen after word gets out? Or when she goes back to work? When she’s shunned? I should probably warn her that she doesn’t have it in her, that she’s nowhere near strong enough. But then again, it’s not my place, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut.

An attractively curvaceous girl stops Marissa just as she’s trying to dart toward the exit, the home stretch. She has chin-length blond hair, a nice rack, and hips to hang on to. I’m sure most of Marissa’s friends call her fat, but I’m also sure most of Marissa’s friends are anorexic bitches, so . . .

“Marissa! Wait!”

There’s no polite way to pretend she didn’t hear, so Marissa turns toward the girl and smiles.

“Heather, how are you?” Marissa turns on her overly happy, public face.

“I heard you had to pull out early from your trip to the Caymans.”

Although I’m sure she doesn’t appreciate the reference to her cutting short the trip for personal reasons, Marissa’s smile is unwavering. She’s good under pressure. “And where did you hear that?”

“Tim mentioned something about it.”

“A gossipy
man
? That’s not very common.”

The girl, Heather, looks stung, but she recovers quickly. “I don’t think of it as gossip. It’s just that you’re so . . . dedicated, he thought something was wrong. I just wanted to catch you before you left tonight to make sure you’re okay.”

I feel a pang of sympathy for this girl. She seems like she’s genuinely concerned, like she’d like to be a friend to Marissa. Little does she know, she’s better off not.

If I had to guess, I’d say this girl, Heather, is a lot less jaded than most of the icy bitches in this room. And it’s probably
because
she’s a nice person that she never ranked very high on Marissa’s list of important people. She hardly rates a short conversation. That much is obvious.

I can see by Marissa’s expression that she’s relieved “Nash” wasn’t mentioned. “Well, I’m fine. And you can pass that along to Tim as well.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she says pleasantly, but she doesn’t leave well enough alone. She’s obviously a glutton for punishment. “You know if you ever need to talk, you can always call me. I’m always home. All alone in that big ol’ house.” She laughs uncomfortably, like she divulged too much or she’s embarrassed not to have more on her social calendar. I imagine that’s something shameful in these circles.

Damn pit vipers!

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Marissa says politely before she starts to turn away. My guess is that she’s not used to such a genuine expression of kindness. But then, as if that very thing suddenly occurs to her, her expression softens and she reaches out and puts a hand on Heather’s arm. “And I appreciate the offer, Heather. Really. Thank you.”

I watch Heather’s eyes go round and sort of glaze over. If I blew in her face, she’d fall right over. She’s that shocked. I’m pretty surprised myself, and that’s not an easy thing to accomplish. But Marissa has done it. And she’s risen a notch in my opinion, too. Maybe I underestimated her character. Maybe, just maybe, there is something more than a snobby, calculated, privileged brat beneath that beautiful skin.

Obviously, she’s a little more complex than I’d originally thought. I can’t decide if her default mode is vicious bitch and she’s trying to fight it, or if the vicious bitch part is more like a hard candy shell, protecting the softer center. I guess only time will tell.

“Have a good night,” Heather says simply before she steps back, allowing Marissa to leave.

“You, too, Heather. Tell Tim . . . tell him hello for me, okay?”

The girl smiles broadly and nods. For a second I think she might get all giddy and start crying for Marissa’s autograph, but she pulls it together and walks back the way she came.

I wait until we’re out in the anteroom, away from the crowd, before I speak. “Bravo,” I say sarcastically. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

She whirls on me, her eyes flashing in a bit of temper I didn’t realize she had. “You’re just not going to cut me any slack, are you?” she snaps.

“People overlooking your flaws for your whole life is what got you in the position in the first place. What you need is someone who’s honest with you. And someone to spank that ass every now and then. Do you some good.”

“And you’re just the man for the job,” she says before turning to walk away.

“There’s only one need I’m interested in filling,” I admit, but I don’t think she hears me.

I follow her out. She stops at the curb and waits for the valet to scurry off after the car. When she responds, I know she actually
did
hear me. “I don’t need anything thing from you. Not one single thing.”

“Maybe not, but you
want
something from me. You can deny it all you like, but we both know it’s true.”

Her eyes dart over my face and she stammers like she’s flustered. “You’re . . . you’re just as delusional as you are twisted,” she replies. I’ve got her off balance. She’s not used to people treating her this way. Or being honest with her, I suspect.

“We’ll see.”

The valet pulls up in front of us with the car he parked only a short while ago. I tip him and open the door for the very stiff Marissa. I have the urge to laugh over her petulance. That’s another unusual occurrence tonight. Laughing isn’t something I do very often.

I climb behind the wheel and shut the door. Marissa must’ve been holding her rebuttal until we were in private.

“If you think I’m sleeping with you, you can think again. I’d rather be kidnapped again.”

This time, I do laugh at her melodramatic response. “We’ll see,” I repeat, shifting into gear and speeding off down the road.

We’ve been on the road for at least five minutes before she stops pouting long enough to realize we’re not heading toward her condo.

“Where are you going?”

“I need a drink. And so do you.”