Wynter's Horizon (8 page)

“Oh well, in that case, forget it.”

I slid my foot in, glancing up at him. “Forget what?”

“Forget going out with him. English people are prudes. He’d never go for you.”

I stood up and stared at his back, instantly regretting I’d just been naked in this room, rolling around in his bed. His nastiness amazed me. “What does that mean?” I could hear my voice rise but couldn’t help it.

“You, my friend, are not a nice girl. Not that I care. I like the fact that you’re all sex, but I’m pretty sure English guys like nice, conservative girls.” He clicked the mouse and Foo Fighter’s distinctive sound filled the room.

“I’m nice.” An image of Abby flashed into my mind.

“Really? Because, judging from the past, from what we just did, from what you just asked me to do to you, you don’t seem all that nice. Why don’t you ask your friends?” He knew I couldn’t, that I hadn’t told them how long we had been hooking up.

“I didn’t ask you. You asked me,” I defended. He came closer, and my heart pounded. I remembered the night he had told me how beautiful I was, how he had never stopped liking me. I remembered him sitting by my hospital bed, and then, after. I’d told him the truth, what I knew that no one else did. When had things changed?

“I’m pretty sure you asked me.” He shrugged. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. You did it, and I’m pretty sure nice girls don’t do it like that.”

I grabbed my jacket and turned around, staring at the doorjamb, praying I wouldn’t cry this time. “You’re a fucking pig,” I answered as I turned the handle, my voice shaking.

“Maybe. But you seem to like it. I mean, hell, I’ve got some pretty racy texts you sent me that anyone can read and tell what turns you on. And, if you think that guy likes you so much, why don’t you ask him and see?” He laughed then, challenging me to reply, to deny what he’d just said. I couldn’t. I was the one who went back to him every time hoping for a different result. I felt so stupid and exposed standing in his doorway. I left before my tears spilled over. The door clicked behind me. I knew he would call or text in a few days, apologize for what he’d said, tell me how awful he felt without Abby and how I was the only one who understood. I brushed the tears away with the back of my hand, keeping my head down as I slinked through the hallway in the hopes of escaping unseen.

The night air was cold. I pulled my thin coat close and wrapped my arms around me. My boots clicking on the pavement were the only sound besides the wind. I ran the last bit, convinced someone followed me. I keyed in the dorm code and rushed inside. The warm air surrounded me, and I took a deep breath but still ran up the stairs two at a time. I couldn’t wait to be in my room. The hall was empty, thankfully—no one to witness my late arrival. I peeled off my clothes and got under the covers, my body aching from more than just cold. I burrowed down but couldn’t stop the night’s events playing back in my mind. Sometimes I hated Jason for the way he made me feel. I glanced at my phone to check the time. The picture Julia had snapped of us playing pool was on its face. I enlarged it and stared at Beck. He was good looking in a kind of hard way. His square jaw and chin with a scar running across it gave him a tough look. Another scar edged down the side of his face, along the line of his cheekbone. Deep shadows lay in the hollows beneath his eyes. I wondered if he had trouble sleeping too. But even rough looking, his eyes were warm. I loved the way he held my gaze across the pool table. My gut churned thinking about it. Maybe I should ask him to the formal. It would serve Jason right if he agreed to go. I rolled over with my phone still in my hand and tried to fall asleep.

Chapter Fourteen

Power

She got on the Tube, walked to the third card, and waited. It was half filled, which was just as well. At Hyde Park, she got off and walked the rest of the way. It was a long walk, but she enjoyed the fresh air, full of rain. In the hospital, they were rarely let outside, and never unsupervised. She turned the corner and smiled when she saw her destination. Harrods. Always busy and packed with tourists, no one would suspect two people discussing a killing spree. Besides, she was looking for some caramels.

In the food court, she pushed her way past a group of Americans gawking at the displays. How annoying. She paid for her caramels and slunk through the crowd on her way to the counter near the Italian section. She saw him instantly, dressed as a civilian in jeans and a plaid shirt. Canvas jacket. Eating. She sidled up to him, standing near as she pretended to inspect the menu.

“This is an awful place.” His voice was low, but, even through the din of the masses, she heard him.

“Yes. But no one will look for us here. After all, I can always claim shopping.” He twirled his pasta, frowning. She could see it out of the corner of her eye. She knew what she had to do. She waited for his eyes to meet hers then pushed her deep red curls behind her shoulder and smiled. It had the desired effect. His pupils grew large and his mouth froze. She was mesmerizing, and she knew it. How Beck could have betrayed her, she didn’t know. But it didn’t matter now. She was going to get her revenge.

She grabbed a nearby stool, sliding it across the tiled floor.

“Continue.” She murmured, waving to his plate of spaghetti. He looked down as if he had forgotten, then slowly twirled another forkful, glancing at her. She knew she had to be careful here. He was a soldier, and she needed to win his loyalty before she could get him to do her bidding.

“How are you feeling?’

“I’m good. My arm’s better and so is my back.”

“That’s good.”

“In your letters you told me you had a mission for me. Some kind of plan.”

“Yes, I need some help.” She steepled her fingers and stared at him, resisting the urge to flutter her eyelids. She didn’t want to be too obvious.

“What with?”

“You know your commander?”

“Yeah. Beckett.” His tone took on a disgusted tone. Perfect. Just what she needed.

“He took something from me. I want it back.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it. He and Quinn. They left us on that mountain without a backward glance. And they gave him a medal.”

She borrowed one of her therapist’s favorite phrases. “How do you feel about that?”

“Utter fucking rubbish. That guy doesn’t deserve a medal. Fuck him. He left us. Who bloody cares he was tortured for days? We were wounded. No one came for us for a week. He left, the wanker.” Anger colored his voice. Her own bitterness rose up like bile, along with a nervous excitement. Here was someone she could use, manipulate.

“I want to track him down and make him pay for that.”

“What did he do to you?” She thought of the men dragging her down that white stark corridor. The years spent alone, sedated.

“He left me, too.” He scraped the remains of his spaghetti onto his fork.

“Well, count me in. Whatever you want. And I’m not the only one who was left there. I can get those soldiers to help. They’re good soldiers, loyal.” He smiled at her, his mouth ringed in red sauce. It was disgusting, but she knew she could not react. Keeping him under her spell was critical. She reached out with her napkin, wiping his mouth gently. It was time to go. She had a curfew at that damn house and errands left to run.

“That sounds lovely. Do that, and let’s meet again. Next week.” Her lips, the color of red tulips, curled up into another smile, and his heart took off running. He couldn’t move his eyes. He wanted to kiss them. She was too
beautiful for someone to hurt. He seethed for the injustice done to her. He wondered what it would feel like to touch her alabaster skin.

She slid off her seat and melted into the crowd. His heart still thudded. He remembered the first time he received a letter from her. Congratulating him on his promotion. They had started a friendship after that. First through letters, then in person whenever he had leave. Last month, she’d written to say she was getting out. He wondered how long he had to wait before she would give herself to him. He folded his napkin and left some money under the chit. He needed to go recruit the others and prepare.

Chapter Sixteen

Beck—The Request

I returned to the bar every weekend, sitting in the corner with Quinn, drinking, eating wings and watching Wynter. I didn’t want to indulge my attraction to her, but I couldn’t walk away and the times our eyes met kept me coming back for more.

Three weeks after the pool game, Wynter surprised me, journeying to
my end of the bar to order her drinks. Her heart thumped like a base drum, with its distinctive murmur swishing behind the steady beat.

“Hi,” she smiled openly and swiped her straight blond hair behind her ear. It reminded me of a trunk full of Spanish gold coins.

I smiled back. “Hello.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Quinn slide off his stool and melt into the crowd.

“Nice night, huh?” She looked down at the bar and then at Jim filling her glass as she waited. She had such beautiful full lips, richly red and glistening with whatever she had on them. I wanted to kiss her; the feeling rose up and nearly overwhelmed me.

“Yes. Lovely.” So much for those new words Quinn gave me. I sounded like a fucking moron!

“Do you live near here?”

Tricky question. “No. Newport.”

“Really?” I didn’t have an answer that would explain why I traveled so far for beer. I wondered what she would say if I told her I came to Jim’s solely to see her—and occasionally for the wings.

Jim slid her beer over, smiled knowingly at the two of us, and left. She hesitated a moment then half scooted up on Quinn’s stool. I stared at her amazed. She drummed her plum painted nails on the bar. She had on black tight pants and a black tube thing with some sheer, mostly open, white shirt on top. My body responded at her nearness. I tried to think of something other than her straddling me wearing only that sheer shirt. Scars crisscrossed her shoulder to her collar bone. Interesting.

“You look nice,” I commented.

She smiled and lowered her eyes shyly. “Thanks.”

I stretched my arm out across the bar and grabbed an available coaster for my mug.

“What happened to your arm?”

I glanced down. When I was eight, the neighborhood bully had locked me in a storage shed. I punched my way out the door. It was the first time I’d shown my strength and lost control of my anger, not shielded by my parents. It petrified the neighbors. I survived the trauma to my arm despite ripping the skin off to the bone but not the following hysteria. I was shunned by parents and children alike. We had relocated shortly thereafter.

“Punched my way out of a locked shed.”

“Seriously? Tough guy or crazy?” She smiled and her face lit up.

“Maybe a little of both.” Since we were discussing past injuries, I motioned to her shoulder. “What happened to your shoulder?”

Her smile faded. “Car accident. Collision with an eighteen-wheeler. We flipped off the highway over the guard rail.”

“Really? You survived. Lucky or strong?”

“Neither,” she answered flatly, picking up her phone. She looked at it briefly then put it back down. Taking a long draw of beer, she stared off across the bar.

I took a drink. Silence filled the space between us. “I’m…”

“Don’t say it,” she whispered, looking back at me, her hair falling forward. Her voice was thick with emotion. “Please don’t say you’re sorry. That’s what everyone says. And you … you don’t know.” Anguish filled her green eyes. It was as intimate a thing as anyone had said to me in a long time. My gut twisted. Something happened that night, and, whatever it was, she felt responsible.

I wanted to tell her that I was there, maybe not that instant but soon after. I saw her on that beach. But then, that would probably have her screaming for the door, as certain as my true self. She glanced away, draining her beer in one gulp.

“I was just going to ask if you wanted another,” I lied.

She looked back at me, and half-smiled, the tension easing around her eyes. “Sorry. Sometimes, I just…”

I shook my head, shrugging that it was okay.

She curled her hair behind her ear, angling her body closer. “I … actually have a question for you. Kind of silly, really, um, would you like to go to my winter formal?”

I leaned toward her. I had excellent hearing, but she didn’t know this, and I needed some time to process. “Pardon? I’m sorry I didn’t quite hear?”

Playing with her phone, she spun it around on the bar, staring at it as she mumbled, “There’s a formal at my school. Would you like to go?”

Emotions flooded me and I froze, eyes locked on her. I was a human weapon. Born with skills that my government had utilized, honing them and forging a killing machine. Yes, I had been educated in the process, travelling the world, but, in the end, all I knew was death and destruction. We were about as different as two people could get.

She smiled shakily, worry on her exquisite oval face. “You can stare a really long time.” Damn. I always forgot. I blinked and took a sizeable swallow of beer. We didn’t even have blinking in common, and yet, somehow, we had been to the same place. Did she remember? Was it twisted into her dreams like my memories had been?

Human reflexive qualities and fucked up reasoning aside, I knew what I wanted. I wondered whether I needed a tuxedo or if a suit would do. I smiled back at her. “Well…” I started, only to be interrupted by a loud crash as a case of liquor fell behind the bar, along with Jim’s new bar back. Blood sprayed upward, splattering across the bottles stacked against the mirror. The room swayed. Shit. A buzzing sound like a million bees started in my ears, followed by intense pain radiating through my head. The voices in the bar faded, replaced with the screams of men from my past. Someone grabbed my elbow. I yanked hard, but his grip was stronger.