The Red Ledger [3] Page 10

  I give myself a beat to recall my story. “I was supposed to meet a friend, but something came up once I got here.” I shrug. “So here I am.”

  “This is a pretty exclusive get together. What exactly do you do?”

  I hold his gaze for a long moment. “I’m a student.”

  He nods quietly, looking me over again.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Do I need one?”

  He chuckles. “I have a few more people I need to say hello to before I get out of here. But I don’t want to let you out of my sight. Might be less awkward if I could introduce you.”

  I break his stare and scan the crowd, as if I’m considering his offer. Finally, I extend my hand. “I’m Michaela.”

  He takes it and, instead of shaking it, brings the back of my hand to his lips. “I’m Vince,” he murmurs before kissing the skin, keeping his eyes trained on me.

  I let my lips part and hold his heated stare. A little surge of triumph ripples through me. I have him. As long as I don’t mess it up while he keeps me on his arm tonight, I think I have him.

  He turns my wrist before letting go. The pendant shimmers against my skin. An irrational fear strikes through me that somehow this will be the thing that tips him off that I’m not who I claim to be. That I’m not the type of girl he could bring into his bed for a night of no-strings sex.

  He lifts his gaze. “You religious?”

  I pause and do my best to appear unaffected. “I know who to call when I’m in trouble.”

  With that, he laughs and slides my hand in his. “I like you, Michaela. Come on, I want you to meet the senator.”

  Another glass of champagne and almost an hour later, Vince’s hand rests possessively at the small of my back as if we’re a couple already. His charm slips away when he talks business. He seems especially passionate about legislation that affects the pharmaceutical industry. Thankfully, he’s got a friend in Senator Williams, who’s just secured a campaign donation for what would support an average middle-class family for a year.

  I listen and learn but keep my interactions to small talk. No one cares about a pretty girl in a grad program at Tulane unless they plan to sleep with her later, which rules out everyone but Vince.

  When we’re finally alone again, he lowers his mouth to my ear. “I’m ready to get the hell out of here. How about you?”

  His lips brush against my ear seductively. I shiver, because that’s what I do when Tristan does it. I close my eyes and lean into Vince a little, hinting at the desire for more contact.

  “I think that sounds like a great idea,” I say.

  “How much?”

  My breath hitches. I look up at him. Martine and I never discussed a rate. I was going with the pretty girl act, not the hired hooker act. I wouldn’t even know a figure to toss out.

  He shakes his head. “Forget it. You can tell me when we get to the room. Charge me double. I don’t fucking care.”

  “Are you staying here?” I ask dumbly, my voice breathy and soft.

  He nods. “We don’t even need to leave the floor.”

  He takes my hand, and I follow. After a short journey out of the event room and down the hall, we’re at his door. An imposing man stands nearby, barely looking at us. Then Vince opens the door and gestures for me to go inside. I walk in slowly. The sitting area is dark, but I can make out the basics. Beige walls and beige carpet. Local artwork and expensive upholstery. I slow in front of the French doors that lead from the sitting area into the lit bedroom.

  He comes behind me, molding his hands to my hips and nuzzling into my neck.

  “How much, baby? I’ll make sure my guy has the cash by the time we’re done.”

  In the time between leaving the party with him and being in his room, I came up with a work-around to the payment situation. One that I hoped would segue nicely into the plan.

  I turn slowly in his arms and rest my palms on his chest. “I don’t want you to pay me.”

  He frowns. “I’d feel better if I did. I’m sure we can come up with something reasonable.”

  I toy with the buttons on his crisp shirt and bite my lip. “What are you into, Vince?”

  He exhales slowly, cinching our torsos closer. “A few things. You seem like a good girl, though. I don’t want to scare you.”

  I peer at him through my eyelashes. “That’s the thing… I kind of like to be scared.”

  He doesn’t speak. Scarcely breathes. Doesn’t stop his slow journey over my dress until he gets to my ass. He cups my cheeks and adds pressure so I can feel his growing erection.

  I scream on the inside. I close my eyes and bite my lip harder, turning the outward reaction into something sexy and needy, when all my instincts are telling me to run out of here.

  “I can do that for you, Michaela. I don’t do safewords or any of that shit, though. Because once I start, I’m not going to stop. Can you handle that?”

  Anxiety zings through my veins. When I’m certain the fear hits my eyes, I realize it’s the kind of fear he enjoys. Because he smiles and slides his fingers into my hair, twisting them through the strands until I wince.

  “You like it rough, baby?”

  I nod quickly, breathing fast. I’m scared, but he thinks those outward reactions are a result of my deviant desire. He thinks I’m turned on.

  It’s a perfect misunderstanding.

  Soon I’m shaking in his arms. Because I’m about to ask him to do unthinkable things to me. My lips part, and my voice trembles when I finally find it.

  “I want you to hurt me.”

  TRISTAN

  I force myself to blink when my eyes start to burn. I feel like I could crack the computer screen displaying the feed to Boswell’s room with how intensely I’m staring at it.

  She didn’t just say what I think she said. She didn’t just ask this sick fuck to hurt her. On purpose. Consensually.

  Yet I’m sure she did when he suddenly goes from sweet and soft on her to pushing her into the bedroom. She stumbles on the bench in front of the bed. He catches her. By the throat.

  I hear her struggle to inhale before he leans in and kisses her. When he lets go, she drops down hard.

  “Slow it down,” I growl. “Slow it the fuck down.”

  That’s what she said she was going to do once she got this far. But I fear that was never the plan.

  The nightmare visions of what he might do next are reeling too fast for me to thoroughly process. For all my practicing detached emotion the past couple days, I’m a total fucking head case right now.

  Then he slaps her across the face, and I worry I might black out from pure rage. Rage so raw and violent, I know it’s breached a new category of feeling. I grab my gun and stand up. I take long strides to the door, my vision already red with all the blood I’m going to shed once I get in there.

  Kill. I’m going to fucking kill him.

  Another slap draws my attention back to the screen. She screams and scrambles away. He follows her onto the bed.

  “This what you want? You want me to rough you up a little first, baby?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hear her voice. So small and afraid. She doesn’t want this, yet it’s exactly what she’s asking for. I squeeze the grip of the gun, relishing the bite of the jagged metal pattern into my palms.

  When he hauls back and hits her again, he does it with enough force that her whole body spins. Then he’s behind her, fisting her hair and muttering something in her ear as he mauls her breasts through her dress. When he jerks her head back, she lets out a wail. And that’s when I know.

  I’ll never be the Tristan she wants. I’ll only ever be the one who kills.

  Taking lives is her limit. Risking hers is mine.

  An odd peace comes with this realization. Because it means I don’t have to hesitate. I don’t have to apologize. All I have to do is save her. She’s already decided the rest.

  Everything shifts into focus because I’m seeing it through the scope I�
�m already accustomed to.

  Knowing what I need to do, I leave my room down the hall and approach the heavily muscled man guarding Boswell’s door several feet away.

  “I need to get in there now,” I say.

  His expression doesn’t change. “No one gets in there until I get the signal.”

  “The signal?”

  He nods. Martine. What a prize she is, letting her friend’s daughter get beaten up for some bullshit incriminating video.

  I nod in mock agreement and look away a second before using my fist to crack his nose. He throws a punch, clipping my jaw and pushing me against the wall. But my next three hits come too fast for him to dodge or react to. The fourth one ends the fight. He drops to the rug, knocked out for the foreseeable future. I’ll have to deal with him later because too much time has already gone by. Isabel’s alone in there with a goddamn monster.

  I slap the key I made over the sensor until it beeps.

  When I go inside, I hear nothing except heavy breathing. Then a painful grunt. Hidden in the darkness of the sitting room, I lift my gun and go deeper into the suite until I can see more. Boswell is holding himself up against the wall, one hand on his groin, the other cradling his bloody face. His nose is gushing.

  “Fucking bitch. Take my money and get out of here,” he says with a garbled voice.

  I take another silent step forward, and Isabel comes into view. She’s in the bathroom doorway pointing the gun I left for her right at him. The adjoining room is dark, so neither of them know I’m here.

  “I don’t want your money.” Isabel’s voice is slow and hoarse. “I want my life back. The one you almost took from me.”

  He winces. “What?”

  “You sent Kolt for me.”

  His eyes harden with recognition. “Jesus Christ. It’s you.”

  “It’s me. And this is going to stop. Tonight. I’m not running from you anymore.”

  He doesn’t speak.

  “Everything you did was on camera,” she says. “Unless you want the senator to find out how you treat your women, I’d suggest you put all of this to bed. Call off the hit. Let us move on with our lives.”

  He’s calculating. I can see it in his eyes. All the potential losses. All the ways he can manipulate to get what he wants.

  He straightens off the wall, though not easily. “Isabel Foster died in Rio last week. How’d you pull that off?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Lucia and Gabriel were getting fancy again? Why am I not surprised?” He sneers, though the motion causes him to wince.

  “This feud has to stop before more people get hurt.”

  “Did you give your mother the same speech? Because she’s been fucking with my family for years. She’s got people breaking into our accounting firm to hack files. Setting off alarms at our properties. She never fucking stops.”

  “You killed my sister,” she whispers.

  “She was already dying! They insisted on the treatment. They begged for it. Your sister had an adverse reaction, and your crazy fucking mother hasn’t let it go. My father did her a favor she didn’t deserve after your grandfather nearly tanked our company.”

  “So you tried to kill me? That was your solution?”

  He pauses. “Lucia has her priorities. I have mine. She’s obviously dedicated to destroying us, and I have to protect my company. She wasn’t leaving me a lot of options. For what it’s worth, hiring the hit on you wasn’t my first choice.” He strips off his shirt and uses it to sop up the blood. “Kolt wasn’t supposed to fall for you. I guess I can see firsthand now why he did.”

  “Promise me this is over.”

  He pins her with a hard look. “Call off your mother and her band of do-gooders, and we’ll call this water under the bridge.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation,” she says.

  “Then shoot me if that’s what you want to do.”

  Something flickers in his eyes when he says it. Isabel rearranges her hold on the gun the way I taught her. Something knots in my gut, though. Boswell’s challenge is like a shockwave through the room that we all feel. We all know deep down she can’t do it.

  He tosses his shirt to the floor and takes a step toward her.

  “Stay there,” she says firmly.

  “I don’t think you really want to do this, Isabel. You’re a good girl. We can figure this out.” His tone is calm and gentling.

  Her arms start to waver. Shit. She knows how to hold a gun, but she can’t pull the trigger.

  Before he has a chance to get any closer, I step out from the shadows and move through the doors.

  “Hold it right there.”

  Boswell jolts back, his eyes wide. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Someone you can’t intimidate. Back up.”

  He lifts up his arms and starts taking steps back. His breathing ticks up. I can almost smell the fear on him. An unpleasant odor that comes from a human body when it realizes it’s facing death. He reeks of it suddenly.

  “This shit is over. You’ll wish the video was the worst of it, because if any harm comes on her after this, you’re going to have to deal with me. And I don’t hesitate. I. Don’t. Care.”

  His back hits the wall again. I crowd him, my gun aimed between his eyes.

  “I’ll come for you first,” I say quietly. “It won’t be quick, but it’ll be thorough. I’ll enjoy it, I promise you. And when I’m done, I’m coming for your father and your sister. And then that pretty boy nephew of yours. Until I’ve wiped out so many of you that no one knows who Isabel Foster is or why one of you thought it’d be a good idea to kill her. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  He swallows hard. “Yeah.”

  “Do you realize I would much rather kill you right now than ask for your cooperation?”

  He hesitates and then nods slowly.

  “Good.”

  As vicious as I’m feeling right now, I don’t want to kill someone in front of Isabel. Even if she left now, she’d know I did it. Just being in her presence, I can register the horror she’d feel, and I can’t deal with it.

  I turn Boswell around and bind his hands with the stash of zip ties I keep in my jacket.

  “Your bodyguard took the night off, so don’t bother yelling for him. No cops. Figure out how to patch yourself up, get your ass on a plane back to Boston, and call off the hit. I’ll know if you don’t.”

  “Consider it done,” he says with a grunt as I haul him toward the bathroom.

  Isabel steps out of the way, and we pass through.

  “On your knees.” I kick the back of one so he drops down with a humph.

  I yank his bound hands toward the toilet pipe and hook a couple more plastic loops through it so he’s tethered there, hopefully until maid service arrives in the morning.

  “Boswell.”

  He snaps his head up, looking like a beaten dog on the floor with his wounded, hateful eyes and bloody face. I really hope I never have to see it again. I hope he doesn’t give me a reason to.

  “Are we clear?”

  “I get it, all right?” he says. “It’s over.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Isabel

  Tristan slams the bathroom door shut and pauses when he sees me.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m okay,” I croak. I try swallowing over the tears that want to break free, but my throat is too sore from Boswell’s viselike grip on it.

  Adrenaline is flooding my system. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if Tristan hadn’t shown up.

  When I knew we had enough damaging behavior captured on video… No. When I knew I had enough of Boswell’s blows, I finally fought back. My invitation to play rough was met with more than I anticipated. The last hit had my ears ringing. That’s when I realized he could knock me out and this would be over. At least for me. Not knowing if anyone had my back but Zeda, anything could have happened.

  In an instant, I called on
my instincts and everything I’d learned. I hit him in the nose as hard as I could with the heel of my hand. He came after me, tried subduing me until I got an angle to his groin and managed to scramble to the bathroom for the hidden gun Zeda told me was waiting for me if I needed it.

  Having the weapon in my hand gave me a short-lived sense of relief. Once I pointed it at him, he seemed to surrender. But the gun was no good if I couldn’t pull the trigger.

  As soon as Tristan showed up in my periphery, I knew he wouldn’t hesitate. I wasn’t sure what scared me more. The prospect of Tristan following through on my empty threat or having to fight Boswell off myself.

  “Let’s go.” Tristan’s voice is clipped as he moves into the sitting room. He reaches under the entertainment system and withdraws a tiny laptop.

  “What’s that?”

  “Insurance,” he says.

  I follow him out of the room and into the empty hallway.

  “I have to get my things,” I say. And check on Skye and Zeda.

  He opens the door to their suite with a plain white key that I don’t ask about. Because Boswell’s bodyguard is slumped on the floor when we walk in.

  I look at Tristan, new panic sliding through my veins. “Is he dead?”

  “Zeda and Skye must have dragged him in here after I knocked him out. They probably bailed when they saw me go in for you. Get your shit and let’s go before he comes to.”

  I run to the bathroom, but it’s empty. Everything’s been cleared out. The laptops, my bags, everything.

  “Everything’s gone.”

  He takes my hand and drags me out and down the hallway to a third room. There, he puts his laptop and the smaller one into his backpack.

  “Service elevator,” he says.

  We hurry down the hallway to it. Once inside, he hits the button for the bottom floor. I’m breathing hard. I’m scared and want this to be over. I want to be somewhere safe. Somewhere really far from Vince Boswell.

  Tristan touches my chin, slanting my face to see both sides of it. “You’re already bruising.”

  I can feel it too. The ache in my jaw. The heat on my cheek. The swelling in my lips.