Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) (21 page)

Jerricho lay on the cold, hard gymnasium floor watching the sun come up. There was no empty promise in the bleached colors of the early morning light. Washed out just like him. He’d hit the punching bag until his punches wore out and he stood in a puddle of his own sweat.

And still he was full of rage.

Taking only his shoes off, he’d dived into the lap pool and swam. The heavy weight of his wet clothes felt good, felt right, a physical manifestation of the weight he felt.

At some point, he’d pulled himself out and back onto land, limbs heavy and aching.

He’d lain there on his back in a pool of water, lungs hurting as he tried to breathe, trying to tell himself it was just the exertion.

He tried to tell himself he’d never been foolish enough to hope it wouldn’t end.

The hours of the night passed as his clothes slowly dried and hardened along with his resolve.

He’d keep moving; he was good at that.

If he accepted the status quo, he’d only end up hating her, right after he started hating himself.

He was walking a very fine line of moral demarcation. As a doctor, he couldn’t stand by and watch a man be tortured. But as a sadist, as a man in love, he’d be lying if he didn’t say he wanted the man to suffer.

The conflict would consume him. He was back to saving himself—he had to go.

He would leave tonight when nobody would notice.

He would leave after he’d done what needed to be done.

He pulled himself up and curled his fingers into a fist.
Nothing broken, just swelling
. He wriggled his fingers; his knuckles hurt, but the nerves and tendons seemed fine.

Punching the bag had been stupid.

Thinking he’d found home had been stupid.

He was all out of being stupid.

He dragged his tired body toward the house. The bleak sky threatened rain. His still-damp clothes chafed against raw nerves.

He didn’t want to see anybody right now.

Later he would find a way to say his goodbyes—closure for him and hopefully for Scarlet—but right now, all he wanted was to get out of these clothes, find a bed, and wait until nightfall. Then he wanted to enact his plan and leave.

He opened the back kitchen door just as Scarlet shuffled into the room yawning.

He felt a twinge of pain knowing what had kept her up.

Still stupid.

Seeing her threatened to weaken his resolve, it didn’t matter that it was right; leaving was going to be hard.

“Morning.” She smiled at him, and there was the fucking sun, promising a man what he couldn’t have.

He grunted his reply.

Scarlet stopped what she was doing to look at him. “You’re up early. Coffee?” She gestured at the can in her hand.

He shook his head.

“Yeah. The instant stuff will kill you.” A tired smile curled her lips.

On closer inspection, she didn’t look like a woman content from being fucked; her features looked emotionally drawn. He reached for the freezer and opened the door, blocking her from his view. He wasn’t going to get tangled in what happened. He’d grab ice and a dishcloth for his hand and find a room … on the other side of the house.

Except when he closed the door, she was still watching him.

“What’s the ice for? Your hand bothering you?”

“It’s nothing.” He looked around for the dishcloth.

“No, don’t say that,” she snapped, but then seemed to catch herself. “If you’re hurting, I want to know. Don’t block me out. I can’t take being blocked out by another man I love.” Her eyes seemed to plead.

A man I love.

Deep down, he’d hoped it. Maybe even known it, but there was always Killian, always the fact that the words had never been said between them, as if they were both scared of making that demand.

He stood there frozen as she came up to take his hand and look at it. The electricity in her touch sparked him back to life. He made to pull away.

“It didn’t look like this before …” She winced as she lifted his hand and looked at the raw knuckles. “What happened last night, Jerricho? Does Killian have something to do with this?” She looked up into his eyes.

Tell her. Remind himself he had to go.

“The gym…I stitched up Romeo last night.”

“Romeo?” Her brow furrowed. “Killian asked you to work on Romeo? Fuck, he does make it easy to hate him.” She shook her head. “I promise you it won’t happen again.”

A man I love.
It was stuck in his mind.

“Do you mean it?” He shouldn’t ask. He should make a clean break.

“Yes. He promised me—”

“No. Do you love me?”

“Of course, I love you.” She stared into his eyes as if willing him to believe it. “I love Killian too,” she added softly.

Part of him had been willing a different response. Part of him …

He shook his head and pulled his hand from the warmth of her grip.

She looked at him as if she could feel him retreating. “You’re going to leave.”

“I have to go—”

“No.” She shook her head, refusing to hear him. “No.”

“Scarlet.”

“Is it Killian?”

“Not like you think. I can’t stay.”

“Yes, you can. The blackmailer, it’s all fixed—”

“I can’t stay.”

“You can.” Her eyes bore into him. “You just have to choose. You have these walls around you, like you need to stand on your won, but you don’t. I love you. Stay with me.” Her eyes were no longer red from lack of sleep but from tears that swelled, brimming to fall.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is, if that’s what you choose.”

The rain had come. Lines of water running down the window as tears spilled onto her cheek.

***

The rain was heavy, but Jerricho wasn’t worried about the wet; he was worried about stones. He ducked too late as a small piece of rock pelted his chest. His mother pulled him against her, shielding him as they hurried quickly down the street, away from the shouts of ‘whore’ as grocery bags bobbed and slammed against them.

It had happened before, and just like last time, the men around them had looked the other way. She was only a woman, only a Westerner.

At eight, he was his mother’s chaperone, but she pulled him away when he would confront the men who hurt her. She’d heard stories of boys being plucked off the street to fight in the war and she didn’t want to antagonize anyone any further. She’d explained to him more than once that honor was nothing if you were dead.

It was dangerous times, at war with Iraq and political unrest from the ’78-’79 Revolution still bubbling. He had grown up understanding politics, listening to the men debate with his father as they sat around their kitchen table. His father had been gone for three days.

He heard a sickening as his mother bit back a whimper. A larger stone must have hit her. He felt a wet drop on his ear and bit his own lip, not wanting to cry, wanting to give her strength even as she shed her tears. He reached up to dab the trickling wet and pulled his fingers away only to discover the sticky of red.

Alarmed, he looked up; blood flowed freely from just above his mother’s eye, the cut already swelling. “Mama.”

“Shh … almost home.”

The minute he pushed open the door, he knew they were safe. A fire was lit and the small home was warm. He ran into the strong outstretched arms.

“Papa, you’re home.”

His father hugged him tightly. “I told you,” he whispered in his ear, “as long as you’re here waiting for me, I’ll always come home.” His father ruffled his hair then stood. “What’s wrong, my boy, why are you crying?”

“Mama.” He pointed past the discarded bags to the other room.

His father stood up and walked out toward the bathroom. “Claire?”

“Stones.” Her voice was near hysterical as she turned on the tap. “Stones, Iman. Do you know what they do to women they stone? They bury them with their arms pinned to their waist so they can’t defend themselves … can’t get free.”

Jerricho stood by the fire but couldn’t stop shivering.

“They won’t stone you, Claire. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“As if that matters.” She pushed past his father back into the room, her face washed but the wound still weeping. Grabbing him by the arms, she turned him around, inspecting him for any cuts.

“I’ll arrange for you to stay with someone when I go on assignment. That will keep you both safer.”

“No.” She stood up and faced his father. “Listen to you. Listen to the life you’re asking me to lead,” she pleaded. “Iman, we came here because you said you had to cover the Revolution. It’s five years later. When are we going to go home?”

“This is my home.”

“It’s not mine.”

“You’re my wife. My home is your home.”

“Tehran is too dangerous. Everything has changed since the Shah.” Her voice escalated with every word.

“It’s war, Claire. Chemical weapons.” His father took a step toward his mother, hand out as if to calm her. “I can’t turn my back on what is happening. This is the home of my father, and my father’s father.”

“You have a family to think of. We have somewhere we can go, back to Paris.”

“And what about all the people who have nowhere to go? All the victims?”

“You’re a reporter for God’s sake. Your job is to report it not fix it.”

“I’m also a man. With a conscience.”

“You go for days at a time,” she ranted over him. “I never know when you’re coming home.
If
you’re coming home. I just want to go back to Paris …” She started to cry.

His father shook his head. Hands on hips, he stared down at the carpet for what seemed like the longest time.

“You should go.” He looked back up at his wife. “You should go back to France.”

“Come with me.” Her eyes shone as she pleaded.

“I can’t. I have a moral obligation.” His father’s eyes shone with a different fervor.

His mother recoiled. “If I go, I’m never coming back, Iman. If you make me leave alone, I’m gone for good.”

“That, Claire, is up to you.”

“You’ll die here. We’ll all die here.”

“Sometimes we have to risks to do what is right.”

“You selfish, selfish man.” Her words turned angry and bitter. “And to think, I loved you …”

The accusation hung festering in the air as his father unflinchingly stood his ground.

Her eyes narrowed, the beautiful blue of them turning hard and cold. “Fine.”

With that one word, the war had finally entered their house.

“The boy and I will leave tomorrow, at first light.”

As long as you’re here waiting for me, I’ll always come home
.

“We can’t leave,” Jericho blurted.

His mother turned to look at him. “Don’t be sil—”

“Let him decide, Claire.”

“Iman, he is a boy. A child.”

“He is of age. He can make his own decisions.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

“Don’t fight me on this. The law is on my side.”

She turned back to Jerricho, trying to sound calm, but the quaver gave her away. “It’s too dangerous—”

The swelling above her eye was angry and raw, even the eyelid looked lazy. If she left, she’d be safe in France with her family … but his father …

Jerricho shook his head, squaring back his shoulders, trying to be brave. “They don’t see me as an outsider. I’m going to stay with Father and help.” He wanted to give the man a reason to come home.

His mother shook her head. “Mon fils, non.” The whisper was hoarse as she looked at him with horrified eyes.

Betrayed.

She looked at him as if she felt betrayed.

His gut churned. Maybe he was wrong, maybe his father didn’t need him. Maybe his mother needed him the most. He made to move from the fire to hug her, but his father put his hand on his shoulder, holding him put, fingers biting into his tender flesh and bone, but the pain seemed insignificant.

“Please. Please, tell him to come with me. Let me take the boy …”

“The madness will end, and when it does, we will need good men to rebuild Persia.”

She stood there still shaking her head in ritualistic denial.

“Mama …” He wanted to tell her he loved her, that he was sorry.

But she looked through him as he stood there, torn.

***

Torn.

Like now.

“No” Scarlet curled herself around him. “You’re not leaving.”

“Shh.” His arms automatically wrapped around her as she clung to him.

He picked her up, walked with her, and sank into the deep window seat in the breakfast corner. He leaned back against the wall, acutely aware of the feel of her in his arms, soft and feminine.

Scarlet molded herself to him, despite the damp of his cold clothes, as if she could anchor him down with sheer will.

He didn’t want to go, but she was wrong, he didn’t really have a choice.

Scarlet or himself? Either way he’d lose.

She cried with a weariness he felt, and he let it play out. Something inside of him yearned to be grieved.

When the hiccup of dry sobs racked her body, he placed a kiss on the top of her head just to inhale her scent. He would remember all these details and play them back when he felt lost.

“You can’t leave me. We fit. All of us, we fit.” She yawned.

“Shh. Sleep.” He stroked her hair, watching her eyelashes flutter as the grip on his T-shirt tightened.

“You can’t leave.” So sleepy and tonight she needed to perform.

“Shh.” There was no point in arguing. He was too tired, and she felt too good.

Scarlet stood under the Opera House stage lights and stared into the dark. Thousands of eyes were peering at her from that dark and she couldn’t see anyone. But she could feel them. Feel their anticipation. The energy crawled over her skin. Instead of exciting her, she shivered.

The first flash stunned her.

And then there was another and another and another.

Blinding flares, and for a moment, she was back in that room, the hood being pulled from her head, the voice telling her no one was going to hear her scream, the bone crushing grip on her wrist as they flattened her hand.

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t do this.

It was too much too soon. She wasn’t ready …

She closed her eyes.

There are worse crimes.

Like?

Like not doing what you love
.

All this time Jerricho’s couldn’t do what he loved, and she could.

The crowd rustled, their energy no longer patient.

She blew out a deep breath. Slow, as if blowing out candles and making a wish.

The music started, she’d forgotten to signal and they’d pushed ahead.

She opened her eyes, the lights changed with the set illuminating the first three rows. Eyes searching, she knew where to look.
There
. Killian and Jerricho sat in the middle of the second row.

Soul food for the eyes.

Power and strength … and love. Everything she needed to make her feel safe.

Everything she needed.

The fear was gone. All was good and right.

Everything had come together.

She’d survived. She and Killian had survived.

Jerricho was still here.

Daniel would be happy for her. For all of them. He’d always said the music of life was bigger than any one tune.

It was time for a new song.

She thrust her hip to the side on the beat of the drum, curled her hand around the microphone bringing it closer to her lips. The crowd’s energy shifted. Song swelled on the tide of anticipation and filled her lungs.

Yes, everything was perfect.

***

As soon as the show ended, Killian split from Jerricho and left the concert hall to go outside. He walked down the steps, across the forecourt along the harbor to the point where the open plaza met the road.

Hands in pockets, he waited until Eli rolled down the cul-de-sac on his Harley. The loud thumping of the engine as it crawled to a stop drew as much attention from the tourists as the dichotomy of him in his tuxedo standing there talking a tattooed man.

Eli kicked the stand but stayed straddling the seat as he removed his helmet. “You surprise me.”

“You keep flirting with me, Eli, but I’m off the market.”

Eli laughed and then shook his head. “Ten months of busting my balls to find him.” His attention followed as a ferry sailed past them and into Circular Quay. “I thought you and Romeo had big plans.”

Killian watched the boat with him. “Scar.” She was always his reason. “Plans change.”

“Well, never fuck with the wisdom of women.” Eli looked up at the sky. “Beautiful clear night.” The man dropped his gaze to looked Killian in the eye. “Am I collecting dead or alive?”

“Plans change but not that much. Romeo won’t see tomorrow’s sunset.”

“I’ll let crematorium know.”

“I want the ashes.” It turned out Romeo was still going to be buried in a small box.

Eli nodded.

For a fleeting second, Killian had a strange sense of weightlessness. It was the same sensation he’d felt with Scarlet last night when he’d made her the promise. A sense of release.

It was time to move on.

Eli turned to look at the Opera House. “How’d she go tonight?”

“She was perfect.” Killian smiled.

“I heard her sing once. I stopped by the hospital after they’d taken the bullet out of your chest. Even with the drugs, you were restless. She sat there singing to you until you stilled.”

“I don’t remember,” He said hoarsely, absently rubbing his palm over his chest.

“You were pretty drugged up.”

He’d always thought she hadn’t sung since Daniel, but it was the hospital. After the hospital, they had never been the same.

Because of him.

Because loving him came in one flavor, fucked up. Even in the good times.

He let the hurt bloom in his chest and settle.

The ache was so familiar; in some ways, he didn’t know how to function without it.

“What about Black?” Eli was back on business.

Killian cleared his throat. “When do we get the papers?”

“I’m picking them up tonight. Lovely air hostess couriering them in directly from France.” Eli winked.

Killian laughed.

“You said you wanted authentic. I’ll drop them off tomorrow.”

He nodded. He looked down at his watch. They’d had the long drive back to the farm. He’d considered staying in Sydney overnight, Sarah had the house ready for them, but Scar wanted the Romeo gone.

Right now, it was all about Scar.

Tomorrow he’d deal with Black.

***

Jerricho made his way backstage to Scarlet. The door to the room was open as people milled in and out, and he nodded at them as he entered.

Scarlet sat in front of the long wall mirror talking to the woman he’d met before the show, her agent. On top of the bench next to them sat a bright bouquet of tulips.

Killian
.

She had everything she needed again.

He was the piece that didn’t belong.

The agent stood and Scarlet looked up, she smiled at his reflection in the mirror as she saw him.

Warmth stirred his chest stirred, a bittersweet ache.

“Hailey was just telling me she’s already been approached with an offer. Another show.” Scarlet’s eyes glistened with possibility. “I like live. Records are impersonal, but the stage … I love the connection with the audience. I almost lost them at the start of tonight, though.” She laughed.

“You were sublime.” She was. His siren.

She swiveled around to face him. “It’s because of you.”

“What?”

“You make me feel strong. I feel like I wouldn’t be here tonight if not for you.”

He smiled. “I think you’re overestimating my contribution.”

“No.” She shook her head, got up, and walked over to him.

She curled her arms around his neck and he placed his hands on her waist.

“You fell into my life just at the right time.” She went up on tiptoes and lightly brushed her mouth over his lips.

Just as he was about to kiss her, Killian walked in.

“Big night.” The man smiled at his wife. “We should get on the road.”

Jerricho gently lowered Scarlet back onto the balls of her feet.

The air turned cold as he moved back from her warm body. He looked at Killian and nodded.

It was time to let go.