Rise of the Fallen (8 page)

"You could use a haircut, too," Tristan said. He
was trying to sound authoritative, which was a joke with Micah, and Tristan
knew it. "I'll see if Josie feels well enough to give you a trim."

Micah leaned against the counter, his stomach content for
the moment, even if his mind was a mess of confusion. "How is she?"
Micah knew she had been suffering through a rough first trimester.

"Touch and go. She's been really sick, but the doc says
that's normal and should pass soon. She was feeling pretty good when she got up
tonight." Tristan fidgeted with his keys, looking down at the floor before
glancing back at Micah. "She'd love to see you. She's been worried."

Feeling a twinge of regret, because he liked Josie and hated
upsetting her, Micah glanced away. Grabbing a pen off the counter, he thumbed
the cap off then popped it back on as he fiddled with it. "Tell her I'm
sorry. Things were shitty for a while, but I'm better now." It was the
most he would say on the subject.

And I'll be even better once I get another taste of
Samantha Garrett.

Steve Garrett hung up the phone. The last year had been a
colossal waste of time and money.

He paced in front of the large picture window overlooking
the wooded tree line that sloped down the hill behind his home in one of
Denver's more elite and secluded subdivisions. His dark-haired reflection
stared back at him in the glass, as did the fire flickering in the fireplace
behind him.

After his blood pressure normalized, he flipped open the
slip of notepaper he had been clutching in his other hand then dialed the
number that had been scrawled on it.

"Hello?"

"Is this David?" Steve said.

"Depends on who wants to know."

"My name is Steve Garrett. I was referred to you by a
friend."

"What kind of friend?"

"One who runs on the wrong side of the law."

Silence on the other end, then, "You must be referring
to Kaplan."

"Maybe." Steve liked David already.

"What can I do for you, Dr. Garrett?"

"How did you—?" This was his first contact with
David. How did he already know he was a doctor? Well, a surgeon, but whatever.

"Please, Dr. Garrett. Give me credit for being good at
my job."

David's job: Bounty hunter, private investigator, finder of
hard-to-find things. Steve didn't really care or want to know how he knew what
he did or performed his job. Only one thing mattered, and that was results.

"Fine," Steve said. "I need you to find my
wife."

"Your wife, huh?" A pause. "Samantha Marie
Garrett, date of birth July 15, ex-Army, born in Missouri. That her?"

"You're hired."

"We haven't even discussed my rates, Dr. Garrett."

"You can call me Steve. And I don't need to hear your
rates. I'll pay whatever it takes. I just fired the last guy who tried to find
her, and he was useless, so I've already wasted enough money. I want the best,
David. You don't mind if I call you David, do you?"

"Nope. You can call me whatever you want as long as you
pay the bill."

"Good. Send me your contract and I'll return it to you
immediately." Steve rattled off his email.

"I'll get it to you in ten minutes." David paused.
"Don't worry, Steve, I will find your wife. I never fail."

"That's what I've heard." His skin prickled. Sam
would be his again. Soon. He could feel it. David would succeed where his last
P.I. had failed.

He disconnected and returned to his bedroom. The naked woman
tied to his bed squirmed and bit down on the gag. Her eyes flared with arousal
as he picked up the riding crop from the edge of the bed. Her skin was still
reddened in patches on her breasts and thighs from when he had played with her
before his phone call.

"Now where were we?" he said. "We've got ten
minutes."

* * *

Sam woke up rubbing her hand over her wrist. It was hard to
tell if it ached or itched as she scratched her blunt nails over two red,
swollen bumps. What the hell had bitten her while she slept? Spiders? The marks
didn't look or feel like spider bites.

Making a mental note to call the landlord later about
bringing in an exterminator, she rolled her head to the side and checked the
clock on the nightstand.

"Oh, hell." She half-groaned as she forced herself
to sit up.

How had it gotten so late? She should have been up and
showered by now.

As she tried to stand, the room spun and she plopped right
back down on the bed, wincing at the sudden pounding in her head. It felt like
she had the flu, her body achy and weak.

That's when she noticed she was still dressed in the clothes
she had worn home from work last night. Sam had slept all day. Over twelve
hours. That wasn't like her.

And what about the man? She hadn't dreamed him because the
mess of her First Aid kit still littered the floor. That man had actually been
here, so where was he now? Had he knocked her out? Stolen her purse?

She whipped her head around toward her purse on the kitchen
counter and paid the price as a bolt of lightning bounced around inside her
skull. She winced through the pain, but at least her purse was still here. Her
duffel bag was still on the floor, too, and she could just see the butt of her
Beretta sticking out. Moving more slowly, she glanced around the apartment and
found everything in place.

The mysterious dark-haired man with the amazing navy blue
eyes had left her meager home intact, but had somehow been able to get up and
walk out without her remembering. How had he even been able to move in his
condition? He had been in bad shape. Who got up and walked away from such a
horrible beating?

Apparently, that guy did.

Steadying herself, she managed to stand and work her way to
the kitchen, where she filled a glass with water and drank like the desert in a
rainstorm. She was so thirsty, craving orange juice, for some reason.

She grabbed the Tropicana Pulp-Free from the fridge and
drank straight from the bottle in heavy gulps, keeping the bottle with her as
she hurried to the bathroom and cranked on the shower. The water and juice made
her feel a little better and steadier on her feet as she quickly stripped and
stepped into the tub.

The hot shower invigorated her back to half-alive, but she
wondered how she would make it through her shift. How could she dance large
tips into her G-string when she felt like a half-dead zombie? What had happened
last night to make her body feel like it had been run over by a bulldozer?

She replayed the events from the parking garage until the
time she got Mr. Mysterious home, and then it felt like something was missing.
She remembered him suddenly lurching toward her as she had started to clean the
wound on his shoulder. The next thing she recalled was the two of them on the
floor, him asking questions that made no sense.

Closing her eyes, Sam leaned back in the spray, rinsing her
hair. Unbidden thoughts of the man called to her memory, just snippets that had
no beginning or end, almost like extra puzzle pieces that didn't fit into the
bigger picture. His mouth on her, his tongue laving her wrist. Why had he done
that? Sam couldn't remember, but she could recall how it had made her feel.
That simple, warm caress of moisture on her skin had touched her to the core.
Even now, the memory of his eyes ranging her seductively as his tongue caressed
her skin made her womb clench. Heat flooded the heart of her.

The man's memory tugged at her like she was a roped calf,
helpless to run away or do anything to free herself.

"Who are you?" she whispered to the lightly
mildewed walls. "Where did you come from?"

No man had excited her this way in a long time, and she
didn't even know his name. Maybe the anonymity was the allure. Maybe the fact
that he was a mysterious, sexy stranger was the fuel for her fantasy:
A
tall, dark stranger, his gaze like blue fire. His tongue used on her in a way
that makes her pulse race. He eases up behind her in the shower. The smooth glide
of his arms around her waist makes her yearn to feel his naked body press
against her back. He's tall, easily six inches taller than she is, so he looms
over her like a protective guard, keeping her safe as his large hands range up
her torso to caress her breasts.

Sam could almost feel him against her as her own hands
followed along with his in her fantasy, feeling her taut nipples against her
palms.

Knowing she was already late for work, she didn't care.
Thoughts of him awoke her body, and she suddenly felt almost normal, as if
thinking about him served to heal her of whatever ailment she had suffered to
make her feel beaten and battered upon waking.

As her hands dove between her legs, she opened wider,
dropping her head back as if on his shoulder, wishing – yes – that it was him
touching her instead.

Micah hauled his ass to AKM. He decided to skip the haircut
Tristan had suggested, going straight for the training center after checking
the dashboard. Thank fuck the place was empty. Micah wasn't in the mood for a
whole lot of hey-buddy-where-have-you-been? Which was exactly what he feared he
would get when someone saw him. Trace, Malek, and Io would know not to bug him,
but Arion didn't seem to get that Micah didn't like to talk, and Micah hadn't
figured out the new guy, Severin, just yet. And Tristan was Tristan. He'd be
all up in Micah's ass for weeks.

He had been going at the weights for a good half-hour and
was in the middle of an eight-rep of bench press when Arion appeared at his
head, spotting him through the last four. Banging them out, Ari helped him
re-rack the bar as Micah sat up.

"Hey, Micah. Are you sure you should be hitting the
weights this hard?"

Micah glanced askance at him, his trademark scowl firmly in
place. He noted how Ari eyed the loaded bar with concern then dropped his gaze
to the faint, almost-healed scars on his arms. Arms that probably looked much
too thin to Ari to be pushing that kind of weight.

"You got something to say to me, Ari?" Micah's
gruff voice was full of fuck-off-and-mind-your-own-business. It was clear Arion
thought Micah's head was screwed on either too loosely or too tightly, but
either way, it meant he thought Micah was in no shape to be here working, let
alone pumping out eight reps at 315 pounds.

Arion shrugged, wavering briefly. The two had never gotten
along, and Micah had a way of intimidating those around him. Maybe it was his
brooding silence or the ever-present scowl that never left his face. Hell, it
could have been the nonverbal fuck-off his body language threw out like a
warning beacon:
Leave this one alone, or he'll fuck your world right to hell
and back.

But Arion always seemed to find the courage – or was that
stupidity – to go on chasing the Devil. Fucking hell, did Ari think he was a
priest and Micah was a soul that needed saving? Sometimes Micah wondered if the
fucker had a death wish or if he simply enjoyed stirring Micah's pot. Every
time they had one of these discussions, Micah thought Arion was ready to back
down – that he had finally realized that Micah didn't appreciate his invasive
prodding. Then he seemed to gather his courage and plod on, pissing Micah off
even more. As if Arion had room to talk for the fucked up life he lived. One of
these days real soon Micah had a feeling he and Ari were going to throw down if
this shit didn't stop.

He just wanted to be left alone. Let his soul burn in hell.
As long as it meant he would have his privacy, Micah didn't care.

"Where have you been, Micah?" Arion said, shaking
his head in frustration.

Micah turned his head and glowered. The little asshole had
done it again, keeping on when he should have just walked away.

"Fuck off."

"You look like shit. How much weight did you lose?
Thirty pounds? How much? And what the hell did you do to your arms?"

This was how Arion was, a pain in his ass and a thorn in his
side. "Who died and made you my conscience?" Standing, Micah blew him
off and started to walk away, but that little cuss just got up and followed.

"Nobody, but…"

Micah spun and grabbed Arion by both shoulders and shoved
him against the wall, growling. "Everyone else gives me my space, why
can't you?" Giving him another hard shove, he knocked the back of Ari's
head against the wall.

A chuckle brought Micah's head around. The door to the gym
was propped open and Trace was standing just outside, a spank-ass grin
splattered on his puss as he nodded once at Micah. He chuckled again and walked
on.

Micah turned back and released Ari and smoothed his
sweat-soaked hair off his face.

Ari's eyes flashed wide as he reached around and rubbed the
back of his skull.

"What's going on?"

Micah turned again and saw Severin enter the training
center, his long, blond hair pulled back. The new guy whipped the towel from
over his shoulder, his eyes flicking between Micah and Arion before leveling an
icy glare on Micah.

"Nothing," Micah said. "Ari and I were just
finishing. He was agreeing to leave me alone. Weren't you, Ari?" Micah
gave Ari a pointed look to emphasize that their discussion was over.

"I can see that." Severin stepped in front of
Arion and bristled as if preparing for a fight.

Micah picked up the protective energy rolling off Severin
like ripples in water after a rock broke the surface. He frowned curiously
through narrowed eyes as he glanced back and forth between them. What the fuck
was brewing between these two?

"It's okay, Sev," Arion said, stepping out from
behind him.

"No, it's not okay." Sev looked over his shoulder
at Ari. "He's being a dick."

Micah scoffed, drawing Severin's attention again. "Cool
out, pretty boy. I won't hurt your boyfriend. And you couldn't take me,
anyway."