Vipers Run (2 page)

“Calla?”

“Bernie!” I dropped the magnifying glass and turned, wanting to hug him. I handed him his phone and started babbling about Cage and the numbers.

His face paled. He looked behind him, out the window and then tossed me a set of keys. I caught them instinctively. “Black truck in the corner of the lot. Walk to it like it's yours. Get in. Hit the GPS and follow where it takes you. Money's in the glove compartment. Do you understand?”

“Bernie—”

“There's trouble, honey. Please, do what I say. Now.”

He walked out then. I don't know why, but I
grabbed the picture from his wall before I went out the back, grabbing my bag along the way.

Two weeks earlier, he'd gotten a call that made him close his office door. He never closed the door. And when he'd finally emerged, he'd been pale and distracted. Twitchy, even.

For the rest of that week, he answered all his own calls. But then things seemed to go back to normal. We dealt with the usual cases . . . some heartbreaking, some frivolous.

I supposed I could call in my father, ask for help. Or I could throw off everything, once and for all, and thank Cage by actually going free.

When I got into the black car and turned the key in the ignition, I'd made the choice. As I pulled the car out of the lot, I heard gunshots, four in a row, and I forced myself not to go back and check on Bernie. Instead, I followed his orders and got the hell out of there. Running from my past and present . . . and realizing I had no clue where my future lay.

My mind swam as I forced my attention on the slippery, rain-slicked roads ahead. Thankfully, the truck gripped the road, as if it knew I didn't have the strength to focus. Normally I'd never drive like this, but the roads were clear and I figured the only one I'd be hurting was myself.

Mom was killed by a drunk driver and then two years later, Grams died. I'd come home from college for the funeral and found out that my brother had taken everything out of Grams's accounts, using her debit card. Except for my settlement money, which he couldn't touch. My mother had never been able to either, which was why my father had put it into a trust for me in the first place. I had money at my disposal, but I wouldn't give in and use it. It was blood money, as far as I was concerned.

I was supposed to start a job in London this past fall. Instead, I'd found myself sitting in the office of a private eye named Bernie, explaining that I needed to find my brother and get the money and the deed to the bar back.

Bernie had looked at me a long time before he'd said, “Sweetheart, even if you had money, I wouldn't take your case. You've had everything taken from you already.”

I'd refused to break down in front of him.

He'd continued. “I knew your Grams. She was a good woman. Your brother's an ass. Put it behind you, live your life.”

“How?” I'd asked, trying not to sound pathetic.

“Work for me.”

And from there, I'd started to rebuild. And I realized that a lot of people had it worse than me. Taking pictures of husbands for suspicious wives—and vice versa—was the bulk of his business, but there was so much more he did for people.

Bernie had given me my life back. A job, a place to stay, and he was kind. His wife and daughter had been killed by a drunk driver ten years earlier, and he'd spent the rest of his days helping people get justice. We were drawn together by the pain of circumstance and I worked hard to help him.

And now I was going someplace Bernie had sent me. He'd done everything to protect me from the seedy side of his business. I had to trust this was no different.

I followed the GPS, driving for about six hours nearly nonstop to pass the North Carolina border. I took one quick break once I was across that state line, for gas and the bathroom at a busy enough rest stop peppered with minivans and tired children asleep in their seats.

Happy families. At least they appeared that way on the outside. I got back into the truck and drove away from the appearance of happy as fast as I could. I was more focused, but I hadn't been able to stop shaking. The heat was turned up so high that the windows fogged.

Finally, I was directed up a long private drive that was close enough to the beach for me to smell the salt water. I had a choice there—I had a truck and some money and I could just cut and run.

But Bernie had never steered me wrong. He'd never given me a reason not to trust him. And whoever was at the end of this driveway was now my only real connection to Cage.

I pulled all the way up to the big house, parked and stumbled out of the car. The whole day—my entire past—swirled around me like an impending storm. The worst hadn't come yet, the pit of
doom in my stomach unsettling me to the point of shaking.

I barely pulled myself together to make it up the path. The gun from the truck was barely concealed in my bag, and the man who stood in the now-opened front door of the house caught sight of it immediately, his eyes casually flickering from it to my eyes.

“That's more dangerous for you if you don't know how to use it,” he noted. He wore dog tags, a black wifebeater and jeans with bare feet. He was good looking in an almost movie star kind of way, but there was nothing plastic about him.

I wanted to say that I knew how to use it—and I did know how—but those words wouldn't come out.

But I did hear some moaning in the background, and I wasn't imagining it, because he called over his shoulder, “Guys, can you stop rehearsing for a minute?” before turning back to me and saying, “Are you here for a job? Because I don't take walk-ins or women.”

I'd dropped my voice to a whisper. “I'm not here for a job. I'm here for—”

Bernie.

Shots.

I couldn't get his name out. I must've started to shake. I'd been faking strength the whole ride
down, and now the thought of this man ready to turn me away had me at near collapse.

“Sweetheart, you took a wrong turn somewhere,” he told me, like the command in his voice would be enough to turn me away. But that only served to remind me of Cage, which strengthened my resolve.

I shook my head no. “I have no place else to go.”

“There are hotels. Shelters,” he started, then stopped. Looked between me and the gun and an expression I couldn't quite place settled there for a moment as he asked, “Honey, whose truck is that? How did you know where to find me?”

I opened my mouth, wanted to tell him, but the debilitating panic took over. I pointed to my throat, tried to go into my bag for the meds I hadn't needed in a very long time. I kept them with me anyway, like a talisman.

But I was shaking and somehow frozen, not an easy combination. I realized he was taking the gun from me and I couldn't tell him what I needed to.

“Shit, Eddie, a little help here.” His grip was strong and sure as he led me inside. I heard him say, “Put the truck in the garage and get rid of the GPS and her fucking cell phone. Not a fucking trace of either.”

And then he was focusing on me again. His words were low and calm, although they didn't reach me, because I'd already folded into my panic. Or it had already folded into me. Either way, I was overwhelmed with it.

In my mind, I was rifling through my bag, searching for my pills, even though I was cognizant of the fact that I hadn't moved.

I saw him holding up my pill bottle in front of me. I tried to nod. I don't think I managed to. To his credit, he got me to swallow the med. I don't remember doing it, but the next thing I knew, I was sitting on a couch, covered in a blanket, and he was sitting next to me.

“Sorry,” I managed, my voice thick and drowsy.

“Drink this,” he instructed, pressing a glass into my hand. I did, mainly because he sounded scary, but I spilled some of it. “Pull yourself together and drink it.”

I glanced at him. “Frankly, I think you're a little judgmental of my panic.”

He took the glass from me, stood and trapped me against the back of the couch, his arms on its back on either side of my head, his body blocking me from going anywhere. Like I could even get up. “Where'd you get the gun and the car?” he demanded.

“Bernie,” I whispered, my throat raw.

The man blinked. “He just gave them to you?”

“Yes. He's . . . we're in trouble. He sent me out. There were shots.”

He held up the picture I'd taken from Bernie's office, his expression tight. “Did you shoot him?”

“No.”

“If there's something you need to tell me . . .”

“Bernie said that the GPS was in his car—take it to where it was programmed.”

“That's not his car.”

“No, not the one he drove every day,” I agreed. “He started using it two weeks ago. Today he told me to take it. That there was trouble.”

“You said you heard shots. How did you manage to get away?”

“I just told you—Bernie sent me out.” I stared at him. “Do you think he's . . . ?”

“I don't know.”

“You should call.”

“Not until I know more.”

“Do you know Cage?” I was going to wait for him to say yes, but he didn't hide his expression. “I think he's hurt.”

“Think?”

“He told me he was dying.” A few tears ran down my cheeks but I refused to break down.
Because Cage had promised, although I couldn't tell the man in front of me that.

“How do you know him?”

“I . . . didn't.” I stared at him, waiting for him to tell me that I shouldn't cry over someone I didn't know. Instead, he turned around and spit out a string of curses, many of which I'd never heard before. I tried to commit some of them to memory, but he was muttering now, pacing a little, throwing his hands in the air as if having a conversation with an invisible someone in the room.

Then he turned back, poured a glass of whiskey instead of water and said, “Drink this.”

This time, I did. “I don't know your name.”

“It's Tenn.”

“Ten like the number?”

“Two
n
's. Short for Tennessee.”

“Were you born there?”

“Nope. In Tallahassee.” He shrugged when I frowned. “My mom was what they call confused. My dad was what you'd call a convict.”

The whiskey mixed with the antianxiety pill I'd taken earlier was making it impossible to keep my eyes open. I didn't bother trying, but I wasn't wholly passed out either. At least I don't think I was, because I was aware of Tenn's conversation . . .

“No powder residue on her hands or the gun. What the fuck is happening, Tals? . . .What do you mean, you'll come get her? No way am I exposing her to Vipers. She's already had a panic attack. You try to bring her into the MC, you're not going to like what happens.” A pause and then, “No, asshole, she's not another stray. And maybe I can remind you that you were a stray? Yeah, well, fuck you too.”

I jerked my head at the harsh growl in Tenn's voice. Then I heard, “Calla said Cage was dying. I haven't heard from the fucker in months and now he's dead?”

“You think I shot Bernie.”

At the sound of my voice, he froze, then turned. “I'll call you back. We are not done.”

When he hung up, he shoved the phone into his pocket. “That was my brother. He's a dick sometimes.”

I knew the feeling, so I simply nodded. But I could never talk about Ned with the affection that Tenn did for his brother, no matter the names he'd called him. “You didn't answer my question.”

“Sweetheart, you knocked on my front door holding Bernie's gun, you showed up in his car and you were panicked.”

“Have you heard from him?”

He swallowed hard and shook his head. “Why don't you get cleaned up and lay down for a while, 'cause you look like hell.”

I stared at him and he broke into a faint grin. I decided I liked him. I even let him help me up and into a room down the hall. He pointed to the bathroom, said, “I'm guessing you don't have any clothes with you.”

I shook my head, determined not to cry again. At least not in front of him.

“We'll figure it out, Calla.”

When he left, I went into the bathroom and stripped down. I'd been battered. I'd been through an inner war that I'd waged and I didn't know if I was winning or losing, but I was definitely on the edge of one or the other.

I stood under the warm spray of the shower and let it rain down on me. My tears mingled with the water; the sounds hid my sobs. It was because of Bernie, because of what I'd lost in the past already, and it was for sure because of Christian Cage Owens.

I'd asked him the impossible and he'd promised it to me. Promised. Was I a fool to believe him? Because I felt like I'd be a fool
not
to.

Tenn had laid out some clothes for me—shorts and a T-shirt and socks. Brand-new underwear.
Tenn was prepared, and I began to wonder how many people in trouble Bernie sent his way. And how most of them were men.

There was also more tea, with whiskey on the side, plus a plate of cookies. Despite my misery, my stomach rumbled. I nibbled on a cookie, sipped the tea after forgoing the liquor, as I looked around the softly lit room.

I noticed it then, propped in the chair across the room. The picture I'd taken from Bernie's office. I went to it, picked it up and studied it as I padded back to the bed.

“You okay, Calla?”

I glanced up to see Tenn in the doorway. “I'm not sure.”

“I left the door open in case you had another panic attack.”

I believed him. “You were talking to someone named Eddie earlier.”

“Yeah, he works for me. I sent him and the others away, though. It's just us.”

“Okay.” I stared down at the throw rug, noting how it contrasted with the dark floors, then looked at the picture again.

“That feels like a lifetime ago,” Tenn said, and when I looked up he was checking out the picture.

“Was Cage in the Army with you and Bernie?”

He tilted his head. Didn't answer.

I still believed that “C. Owens” was Cage. “I told Cage something and he said . . . he said he was coming back for me. He promised. And I hate him for that, because everyone always breaks their promises.”

I said it so fast that I thought maybe Tenn didn't even understand. Even though I knew what I said, I was confused, and unwilling to tell Tenn what exactly I'd told Cage.

He didn't ask anything else and his expression softened. “You can stay here.”

I was already planted against the pillows, planning on doing just that. “I sound ridiculous, I realize.”

Tenn shook his head. “You don't. What Cage told you isn't ridiculous—not if you know him. Sounds like you do.”

I couldn't deny that, but I wasn't sure if I'd dreamed the whole thing up.

And for the next couple of weeks (and I only knew the length of time when I'd come out the other end of the tunnel) I stayed in bed. Cried. Slept. Dreamed of a dark-haired man with rough hands and a rougher voice telling me he'd protect me.

Even as I mourned him, mourned my other life, mourned everything I'd lost, I held on to
Cage's promise. I didn't care if that was stupid, because not only was it all I had, but it was all I wanted.

I'd slept around to get rid of the ghosts of my past, but I'd never felt anything remotely like I did with Cage just talking to me. His voice did more to me than any man's hands ever had.