Unrequited (Fallen Aces MC #1) (24 page)

THIRTY-TWO

Elena

one month later

The more I think on it, the more Maria is right: I have to take him down blow by blow, one little chink in his armor at a time. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of what I can do, but the inspiration never comes.

Not when I can’t get King out of my head.

Without my phone, I can’t check in, see if he’s okay. Carlos is a jealous and controlling bully. His style is retaliation for anybody who thinks they can outsmart him. And when he’s not dishing out any further punishment on me, other than a harmless cold shoulder, I’ve got to wonder what he’s doing then with King.

How could I live with that?
If he’s hurt him, made him suffer, or even worse because of me . . . I shouldn’t have been so selfish. I should have left my ring on all those weeks ago and never played the game.

Twenty-seven days straight I’ve been stuck in this fucking prison—but who’s counting, right? Cabin fever set in at nine. I’m sure Carlos’s plan is to drive me to the point of madness so I’ll submit to him. It doesn’t help that the first half of my punishment was spent between lying in bed wishing I would die, and vomiting in the bathroom.

Never going to happen.

Today, the mind-numbing routine I’ve been stuck in changes. Today, I get to leave and stretch my legs—see people who haven’t been personally vetted first by Carlos. I should be ecstatic. I want to curl up under my covers and sleep the day away. Because today, he said we fly to Colombia.

What for? As if he’d tell me that. No prizes for guessing it has something to do with my grandfather’s supposed hidden fortune.

The headaches and nausea have subsided, but never truly gone after my concussion. I raised the possibility of visiting a hospital with Carlos last week, but he laughed, telling me if I was going to drop dead from internal bleeding then it would have happened by now. All the same, it worries me.

My small suitcase is packed for our trip. Not that I have a lot to take with me anyway. The floral pattern on the travel case glares at me from its position beside my set of drawers. It’s a silent threat; flowers on a trip that’s going to be dark and unbearable.

Turning away from the bright design, I roll to my other side and stare across my room at the pale shadows cast by the dim light of the alarm clock. Four-eleven a.m. My buzzer will go off in forty minutes, giving me an hour to shower, dress, and eat before we leave. I should sleep, but I find it hard to welcome the altered state when all it brings is nightmares and painful memories of better times.

King said that all these bad things were just a bump in the road, and that life would get better. He said I was all he’d ever want. But he’s young and damn fine-looking, and with the lifestyle he lives, he’s probably surrounded by a heap of pretty women. Twenty-seven days is an age for me being stuck in here with no way to contact him, but it would be a lifetime twice over for a man with that many temptations around.

I should forget King. He’s probably forgotten me. It would make the disappointment of my life so much easier to stomach. But for some reason, I can’t let go. The dream of a life lived with King and without fear of reprieve is too much to take, but at the same time, I couldn’t survive without its hope.

A half-hour passes with my thoughts stuck on a never-ending cycle of grief. I follow the same stages: shock, disbelief, denial, bargaining, guilt, anger, depression, and then hope. Each time I start out wondering how the hell I let myself get here, and then slip into a bottomless pit of despair when I remember how powerless I am to change things, only to talk myself into a thin belief that I might still get out if I don’t give up the fight.

The buzzer pierces the morning, disturbing the semi-slumber I’d drifted into while lost in my thoughts. Having such a horrific sound scream in my ear makes me realize just how close to sleep I really was.
Damn it.
I’m going to need to nap on the plane if I want to be alert while in Colombia.

I don’t even know if we meet anyone the day we arrive, or what I’m going to be subjected to. I’ll lose my fucking head if I have to sit around a hotel room, wondering how long I have left before Carlos decides I have no worth anymore and shoots me.

Because it’s bound to happen.

Why would he keep me? I don’t know where the money is.

I slip into the bathroom and start going through the motions of getting myself prepared for the trip. I shower, apply the minimal makeup I have, and then suck in a deep breath. Most of my panic about my fate in Colombia lies with another problem I’ve been facing each morning.

My period never came last month. I can’t remember how many weeks it’s been since I had it the month before. I used to chart it in my phone so I’d be prepared, but without the calendar, my memory is fuzzy. Was it the first week, or the second of the month? How long has it been?

The thought that I could be carrying a part of
him
, of the monster downstairs, scares me. I try not to think about it.

But when my head is spent hanging over the toilet far too much for how long it’s been since he hit my head, a girl’s got to worry.

Placing my hands over my abdomen, I look down at the relatively flat expanse of flesh. I don’t feel any different—at least, I think I don’t.

I can’t be pregnant. How much bad luck can I get?

Pushing my growing panic down, I take several deep breaths and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Later.
After the trip to Colombia.
If it’s true, if I am pregnant, there’s nothing I can do about it, so worrying isn’t going to help anything. I need to focus on one problem at a time. I need to deal with things bit by bit. No sense in overwhelming myself with the things I cannot change.

The wheels on my suitcase make a steady
whir
as I drag it along behind me, heading down to breakfast. I place the floral nightmare beside the front doors and slip through the silent house to get to the dining room. The lights spill out into the hallway as I approach, the tinker of cutlery on china echoing in the vast emptiness of Carlos’s home.

“How did you sleep?” He greets me without looking up from his phone, scrolling pages with a flick of his finger.

“Same as usual.”

“Good.”

He’s got no idea how I sleep. We’ve never spent a night in the same room, and he’s never cared to ask before now.
He’s buttering me up, making me relaxed so I’ll drop my guard.
He’s up to no good, that’s for sure.

I pluck a piece of toast from the basket on the table and decide against having anything but butter on top. My stomach hasn’t been settled for weeks, and I lost my appetite somewhere back when I lost hope of ever getting out of this house to see King again.

King.
If only he knew where I’m going. I don’t expect him to ride in on a shining white motorcycle and save me from the dragon that is Carlos, but it would have been some slim comfort knowing somebody who gives a shit knew where I was when I don’t return.

“Are you packed?”

“I think so. Difficult when I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”

“I told you two days.”

“You said ‘I hope no more than two days’. That eludes to us possibly being gone longer.”

“Do you fucking argue about everything?” Carlos throws his spoon down, sending yoghurt and muesli scattering over the table. “Fuck’s sake. Now look what you made me do.”

I lift a slice of toast and hold his gaze while I chomp down.
Bastard.
I hope the cartels fucking shoot him in the kneecaps and torture him when they find out he’s trying to steal the money my grandfather took from them.

“Do I need to know anything about what we’re doing?” I ask, mopping up melted butter with my slice.

“Just to shut your fucking mouth and to do as you’re told.”

“I might find it a little too exciting seeing people,” I sass. “It’s been a while.”

“Maybe I’d let you out more if I could trust you not to fuck anything that moves.” He casually takes a gulp of his coffee, looking down at his phone once more.

“Like you do?”

His eyes slowly track from the phone, up the length of the table, and settle on my face. “You want to know why you’ve been here for months and yet we sleep in separate beds?”

“Not really. I quite like that arrangement.”

“What then?” he yells. “What is it you want?”

“A fucking divorce. I want my freedom back.”

“You never had any freedom,” he says quietly, sipping his coffee. “You were bound to your parents, working for them. Tell me, Elena. When was the last time you truly did anything for yourself?”

I push my chair out, preparing to run. “When I made love to King.”

“Made love,” he scoffs, shaking his head.

A strange silence settles between us. I expected to have him draw a gun from somewhere, to have to duck flying crockery. But he simply stares at me for a moment before continuing with his breakfast.

“I’m sure you’ve guessed that the only reason I’m taking you is because it has to do with your grandfather’s money.”

“Figured it wasn’t a sightseeing holiday, yeah.”

He scowls at me. “All you have to know is that you’re needed as visual proof for what I’m organizing. You don’t need to say a thing. Nothing. If I catch you uttering a single fucking word about any of this, about your mama, or about the circumstances of our marriage, I
will
cut your tongue out.”

I lift the side of my hand to my forehead, and salute. “Understood.”

‘Visual proof.’ What the hell does he mean by that?

I ditch the last of my toast and excuse myself from the table to freshen up. My gut churns, but I don’t know if it’s nausea or anxiety. What if I never return from this trip? What if I never get a chance to talk to King again and explain what happened? It hurts to think he might assume I broke contact on purpose.
God.
What has he been thinking all this time? I wish I could tell him that I don’t regret what we had one bit.

That I miss us.

God, how I miss us.

And that I was a fool to say I couldn’t wait. I’d wait a thousand years in purgatory if it meant an eternity with him.

It’s been a month since I saw him last, three since we decided to make our dates about more than just coffee.
Three months.
My hand drifts to my belly as I walk. What if . . .? I don’t know if I want to cry with joy or sadness. The chance is there, the timing fits. We didn’t always use protection. It was stupid, careless, but I never paid a second thought to it at the time.

Checking over my shoulder when I reach the foyer, I duck right toward the servants’ area in search of Maria. She’s the only person who knows, the only person who can help.

She looks up from the cart of clean sheets and towels she’s stocking when I come barreling in to the linen room.

“
Señora
? Are you okay?”

“I need your help.” Resting my backside against a shelf, I brace both hands on my knees and swallow back the flow of nausea.

“You look ill.”

“I just moved too fast after breakfast, is all.” I want to tell her my suspicion, but I’m not one hundred percent sure myself yet.
Or am I just in denial?

“What do you need?” She goes back to stacking towels on the cart.

“Can you get word to King for me?”

She drops the towel in her hands and rests both palms on it. “How would I do that?”

“Next time you’re in town. You go shopping with Sully each week, don’t you?”

“For cleaning supplies,
sí.
”

“Beg someone to pass the message to somebody at his club. Bribe the shopkeeper to ask around for a contact.” I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing the tears not to come. “I don’t know, just somehow, please.”

A gentle hand rests on my arm. “Elena, what is wrong?”

“I’m scared I won’t come back from this trip.”

Maria pulls me into a hug, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and placing her chin on the top of my head. My nostrils flare like crazy, but I fight back the tears. I won’t cry. I’ve been weak for too long as it is.

“I will try for you,” she whispers. “What would like me to say?”

“Tell him I’ve gone to Colombia.” I hesitate, weighing it up in my head. “And that . . .”

“What?”

I pull out of her embrace and hold her hand in mine. “That I think I’m pregnant.”

THIRTY-THREE

Elena

The car comes to a stop as I wait on the top step of the entrance with Carlos. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since I found him after talking with Maria. He acknowledged my presence with a curl of his lip, and then pointed to the door.

My stomach lurches, and I draw in a deep breath. It’s got to be anxiety this time. It can’t be anything else. The day is far too bright for my liking already; the stream of sunlight hurts my eyes.

I watch as Sully loads our things in the car and then opens the door for us to get in. Carlos goes first, jogging down the steps and disappearing inside the Escalade before I’ve found the strength to move. I swallow back my fear, place my best foot forward, and then crumple onto my knees on the concrete step.

The world spins underfoot, my vision going hazy as I struggle to push myself upright again.

“You okay, ma’am?” Sully takes a hold of my elbow and helps me to my feet.

“I just . . . I was dizzy.”

“Nerves,” he whispers, steering me toward the car.

I glance up at the man and find a soft smile on his lips.
Damn.
If Sully’s feeling bad for me then this trip can’t be good.

I climb in beside Carlos and drop my head o the seat. He doesn’t say a thing. Either he didn’t notice what just happened or couldn’t care less. I’m going with the second option.

We ride in silence the whole way to the airport, other than the soft classical music of the car’s stereo. The journey gives me time to settle my stomach and find my head again. I’m not sure what the hell happened back there, but by the way my body feels as though I’ve run a marathon in the last twenty-four hours, it can’t be good.

The noise of the airport assaults me first as Sully opens my door. Announcements sing out over the PA, traffic a steady hum as it passes by on the drop-off road. I step out and take a moment to steady myself, one hand on the door pillar. My head spins.

“I’m not feeling well, Sully.”

He takes my hand and guides me to the back of the Escalade. “Stand here while I get the bags out. We’ll get you a lemonade once we’re inside.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Carlos asks, gesturing to me as though I’m the family pet.

“Feels sick.”

He scoffs, shifting his gaze to me. “Harden up, you fucking whore.”

I glance around at the people walking behind him on the pavement. Nobody pays any mind to what unfolds right in front of them.

Sully gets a luggage cart and places the bags on it. I’d run while they were distracted, hot-foot it to the nearest phone booth and call people until I managed to get through to King or one of his club, but with the way my body feels as though I’m part of some gyroscope, I’d be lucky to make it to the other side of the car before I fell over.

Sully helps me to the cart and places my grip on the handle beside his as we walk. I lean on the cart, bumping him every so often as my loss of balance gets the better of me. I’m deteriorating rapidly. How the fuck am I going to make it through a nine-hour flight?

We stop at an airport shop that has a small drinks fridge beside the counter. I eye Carlos as he stands beside the cart, scrolling through his phone, while Sully buys me a lemonade. My so-called ‘better half’ couldn’t give a fuck how I am, but his guard cares enough to do something to help. Sums up my life perfectly.

I take the plastic bottle from Sully and he places his hands over mine to crack the lid with a fizz. “Let it go flat. It’ll settle your stomach.” He hands me a chocolate bar I hadn’t noticed him pick up. “Have this to get your sugar up.”

He steps back, looking disapprovingly at Carlos before starting our cart toward the check-in for business class again. I follow two steps behind, opening the chocolate and nibbling on one corner. My foot falters and catches the terminal floor as I misjudge the distance to the ground. Sully and Carlos continue ahead as I stop, closing my eyes to try and get my bearings.

It makes everything ten times worse.

My hands tighten on instinct around the drink and food as I open my eyes and register too late that I’ve tipped off-balance. The floor is unrelenting as my shoulder hits first. Sully spins around at my pained ‘oomph’ as I brace my neck to protect my head. Last thing I need is another concussion that I might not fully recover from.

“Get up, you attention-seeking slut.” Carlos’s pointy shoes stop by my head.

I leave the food on the floor and push up to sit . . . and then fall right back down.

What the hell is going on?
My head spins, the ground seeming as though I’m in one of those funhouses where it tilts unforgivingly.

“I think she needs medical attention,” Sully says, helping me to sit.

We’ve gathered a crowd, some bystanders forming a semi-circle around our show.

“Get. Up,” Carlos mutters through clenched teeth, still not doing a damn thing to help me. I wouldn’t expect any less.

“They won’t let her on the plane like this,” Sully points out. “She can’t go anywhere.”

“She’s fucking putting it on so that’s what you’ll think,” Carlos snarls. He grabs me by the upper arm and wrenches me to my feet.

One of the bystanders steps forward to intervene, but holds his ground when Sully lifts a hand to indicate he’s got it.

Carlos lets go of me, hissing under his breath, “Show me how you can stand.”

My legs give out, the floor too unstable.

“Fuck.” He paces away before coming back at speed. If we weren’t in public, I could guarantee he would have kicked me from the way he moved. “Get her in the fucking car.”

“Do you need an ambulance?” an onlooker asks.

“No,” Sully answers, looping his arms under mine. “We’ll take her home.”

“I think she needs a hospital,” the old lady presses.

“We’ll take care of it,” Carlos answers, his tone switched to smooth and assuring. “Thank you for your concern.”

She eyes him suspiciously. She’s probably seen enough men like him in her time—all charm on the outside and rotten inside.

I let Sully guide me over to the luggage cart and brace myself on the handle. Thank fuck it has our bags on it to balance my weight, because I’m leaning on it pretty hard. We leave the terminal, heading back for the car while some of the straggling spectators look on. Carlos mutters blue murder under his breath, punching away at his phone while we walk. He moves away from Sully and I to place a call.

“You’ll be okay,” Sully reassures me, helping me on to the back seat. “We’ll get you looked at.”

“Is he coming too?” I ask, glancing to where Carlos paces along the pavement, a terse smile on his face as he tries to fake niceties with whomever is on the other end.

“Hopefully not.”

***

He didn’t come back to the house. Small miracles do happen. I’m not in Columbia, and Carlos has left without me.
Thank you, Mama.
Who else would be watching over me?
Certainly not Papa.

I sat in the car while Sully saw Carlos back to the departure lounge. Again, I could have run, but again, my legs wouldn’t have allowed it. I think they both knew that, too, which is why they left me alone.

Instead, I closed my eyes and drifted off, an unrelenting sense of fatigue having taken hold. I didn’t wake up until we arrived back at the house and Sully parked the car.

He carried me inside to my bedroom and made me comfortable while Maria ran around frantically, ordering one of the other help to call the doctor. I guess in my time here, I have achieved something: I’ve managed to make Carlos’s staff care about me. And I care about them, too. They’ve helped me, and Maria became my friend, even when she didn’t have to. I’d even go as far as to call Sully a friend after what he did today. He didn’t have to stand up to Carlos; he could have packed me on to that plane with some bullshit excuse as to why I was so weak.

But he didn’t. He got me back here.

I’m not in Colombia.

“Can you still get the message out?” I whisper to Maria after Sully leaves us.

She nods. “I already have
.
”

“How?” We were only gone for a few hours, and Sully was driving us.

She grins, clearly proud of herself. “I phoned the grocer we order our fruit and vegetables from. I figure that won’t look suspicious if anybody were to check the records.”

“Oh my God.” She’s too good to me. I fight back my happy tears.
He’ll know soon.
“Thank you.”

She pulls a chair up beside the bed and sits, placing her hand on my stomach. “
Señora . . .
”

“Everything will be fine.” I rest my hand over hers, hoping my false smile is enough to convince her I’m not feeling the same panic that’s written over her face.

“I hope so.”

The doctor comes and examines me. She takes blood, and after a long line of questioning I’m backed into a corner about the truth of it all.

“Tell me what else there is, Elena.” She sighs and perches on the side of the bed. “This isn’t all from your head injury, is it?”

I roll my head to the side and stare out the window as I answer. “I can’t remember when my last period was.”

She sighs again, more out of pity by the sound of it. “Oh, Elena.”

There are no congratulations. The expression on my face gives away my terror. A baby. I’m not ready for that. I can’t even care for myself properly. How am I going to protect a child as well?

“What’s your best guess?”

“At least eight or nine weeks, I think?”

She looks toward the vial of my blood sitting beside her bag. “We’ll soon know for sure.” Her brow dips, her eyes hardening when she looks back my way. “I heard why he beat you so bad last time I was here. Are you sure of the father?”

Shame fills me, rich and strong. “No.”

The doctor hisses between her teeth and walks across to her bag. “Well, with all the vomiting you say you’ve been doing, the dizzy spells, and the obvious loss of weight from all of it, I’d make a guess that you’ve probably got what’s called Hyperemesis Gravidarum. It’s basically a really bad case of morning sickness, but left untreated you could damage not only yourself, but the baby.” She packs the things left out into her bag and clasps it together. “We’ll treat it first before you need to worry about anything else.”

Maria hangs her head. I feel filthy, as though any second they’re going to ship me off to a home for disgraced mothers. How could I be so careless, so full of wishful thinking, when I should have been taking better care of my body? Of the little one growing inside it?

The doc takes me by surprise when she asks, “Are you able to let the other man know? He may want a say in this?”

“A say in what?”

She meets my questioning stare with a cold, clinical one. “If you are less than fourteen weeks, you have options.”

Options?
“No. I couldn’t do that.”

“Nobody would judge you if you did. I’m just putting it out there, knowing your . . .” she looks around the room and pulls a grimace, “situation.”

If the baby
was
Carlos’s, how would that make me feel? Forever being tied to him in such an intimate way? I guess deep down I’d been hoping it was King’s, but now that I think on it . . .
Oh, God.
What would I do?

“When do you get results?”

She pulls her cell out and flicks her finger over the screen. “Give me your number, and I can call you tonight.”

I nod, reciting the digits as I reach my hand out for Maria. She takes it in hers and rubs her thumb methodically over the back of my hand as the doctor pockets her phone again and packs the last of her things.

“Would you like me to bring back some reading material?”

Would I? It seems so long ago that I was taught about this stuff. “It probably wouldn’t hurt.”

She nods and crosses the room to give me a pat on the arm. “You’ll be okay, Elena. You’re a strong woman. You’ll do fine.”

I hope she’s right.