Hard as You Can (2 page)

And it was more than just herself she dutifully played her part for. Because when your father exacted a post-sentencing courtroom promise from you to do whatever it took to care for your younger, ill sister, you gave your word. And you upheld it like it was the oxygen you breathed. No price too great.

Not working at Confessions.

Not Bruno.

Not the scars on her back.

And the fact that her father had died in a prison-yard fight two weeks later had elevated the significance of her promise even more. Maybe that was why he’d demanded it of her in the first place. Maybe he knew something like that would happen, and it really would all fall on her.

Bruno turned away like she was of no further interest to him, and that was fine by her. “I want status updates every ten minutes. Find out if our other locations were hit, too. And find out who did this. I want their heads on a fucking platter, and I want them now.” Given what it sounded like had happened, it was no surprise that Bruno was a volcano on the verge of erupting. As Church’s director of security, this could fall on
his
head if he didn’t get a quick handle on the situation. Bruno turned, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Get out of here and close the fucking door.”

Heart beating in her throat—from her lie, from the shock waves of Bruno’s rage, from the news that someone had apparently attacked Jimmy Church’s operations—Crystal closed the door, left the offices, and darted to the kitchen.

“Where have you been, Crystal?” Howie said, echoing Bruno but without any of the real annoyance of her boyfriend’s tone. Confessions’s longtime food-and-beverage manager had worked his way up from the bottom over a great many years, and as a result they’d known one another Crystal’s whole life. He’d been friends with her father and fancied himself something of a father figure to her. She didn’t mind.

“Sorry, Howie. Got held up.”

She didn’t need to explain. Not really. Knowing the way things worked around here, he nodded with a sigh. “Well, I had to put Macy on your parties. Both complained they’d been waiting—”

Her stomach dropped. “But I’m here now. You know I can—”

“It’s done. With all that’s going on around here tonight, you know they want everything running smooth as glass. So you’re gonna have to split those tips. I’m sorry.” His expression was full of genuine sympathy.

Damn
. Church already withheld her hourly pay and half her tips to pay her father’s debts, so having to split her tips further threatened to sink her stomach into her uncomfortable heels. Crystal refused to let it. If she allowed every little setback to knock her down, she’d be plastered to the floor by now. “Okay, I’m sorry, Howie. Listen, I need food for—”

The older man grasped a tray from the metal counter and handed it to her. “They called up looking for it,” he said with an arched brow.

“Oh.” She attempted a smile as she took the tray loaded with a plate of chicken tenders, fries, and bottled water. Howie squeezed her shoulder, and she left.

Feeling like her head was on the chopping block, Crystal dashed down the private hall and rounded the corner that led to the basement steps. Damn, did she hate going anywhere near this part of the club. Horrendous memories and a desperate, miserable energy clung to the walls down here as if they were the varnish on the old, dark paneling. With a deep breath, she glanced around the tray and double-checked her footing on the first step down.

Commotion erupted from below, then a pounding sounded from in front of her. Two men barreled up the steps wearing masks. The first guy carried a gun aimed straight at her chest. And the guy in the rear held an unconscious man over his shoulder.

She rushed back, causing the bottle of water to fly off the tray, though her hands clutched onto the plastic as hard as her throat held on to the scream suddenly lodged there. Her brain attempted to process what was happening. Jimmy Church’s operation had been infiltrated here, too? Jesus, who would risk pissing off the most notorious gang in Baltimore? And,
oh God,
no way this was a coincidence after whatever Bruno’d learned on the phone. She’d win some big-time favor if she sounded the alert, if she could just get her voice to work.

All of a sudden, the men reached the top of the stairs, and, though they wore masks, Crystal recognized the steel gray eyes peering through the holes, the way that dark shirt hung over obviously defined muscles, the clean, masculine scent.

Pretty Boy.

Who the hell was this guy? And what kind of a death wish did he have?

Whoever these men were, they were busting Church’s tortured prisoner out of here, and she couldn’t help but think escaping this basement was an absolute good. No one deserved to be held against their will, tortured, abused, or—the thing that terrified her most—sold.

When she spoke, she wasn’t sure what she would say until the words were coming out of her mouth. “There was a call. They’ll be coming,” she whispered, her chin dipped in case she was within the shot of the camera trained on the exterior door. “I have to scream now, and you have to hit me.”

“
What?
” the first man rasped under his breath. Through the hole in the mask, his eyes were horrified by her demand.

“If you don’t, they’ll know I helped you. And I can’t . . .”
What am I doing? Jesus, what am I doing?
“You have to. Please.”

Hating her reality, she screamed so loud her throat hurt.

She didn’t have time for his morals, and neither did they. “
Please.
”

A storm rolled across those eyes. “Pretend to fall and cradle your stomach.” The man swung a fist at her gut. She braced for an impact that never came. Relief and gratitude flooded through her as she played her part for the camera and threw herself backward, the tray of food flying to the ground with a thud. Her head and shoulder glanced off the wall, setting off immediate aches that had her moaning.

When she looked up, the space where the men had stood was empty.

But her scream had worked. Church’s men came running. Crystal curled into a ball on the floor, attempting to make herself as small as possible to avoid getting trampled by the boots pounding down the hall toward the exterior door. The one through which two masked men had just stolen her corrupt and violent boss’s prize prisoner.

With her help. Or, at least, without her hindrance.

Gunshots, shouts, and the squeal of tires against pavement erupted outside the heavy industrial door. More men ran past her. No one stopped or paid her any mind, like she was invisible. And in all the ways that mattered, she very nearly was.

Her head throbbed in time with the pulsing bass beat out in the main part of Confessions, the walls nearly alive with the sound. Fear and adrenaline barreled through Crystal’s veins, making her shaky and unsteady as she pushed to her feet, trying not to step on the food scattered across the floor. Being upright exacerbated the ache in the back of her head. The one she’d caused herself. Because the man hadn’t hit her like she’d demanded. He’d only pretended to.

Pretended.

Why had he only
pretended
? She’d
told
him to hit her. She’d had no choice. From the moment she’d seen him and his buddy hauling the unconscious prisoner up the basement steps, she’d known she would
have
to scream. On the injured guy’s behalf, she was glad that he’d gotten free because she knew firsthand how many people got trapped in the clutches of Baltimore’s Church Gang and never got out again, herself included. But no way could she be seen as helping them. Not if she wanted to live. And, more importantly, if she wanted Jenna to live.

Except, Pretty Boy had refused to hit her . . . A man who refused to hit a woman.

How freaking miserable was her life that a man such as that was so damn unique? Then again, maybe his seeming decency was just because she’d helped him.

“Crystal,” came a voice full of menace.

Bruno. She adopted her meekest posture and cradled her stomach as if she’d really been struck, then turned toward her boyfriend and two of his lackeys, stalking down the hall toward her.

A wall of rage slammed into her a moment before his fingers dug into her upper arms. He nearly lifted her off the floor. “What the hell happened?”

Knowing how much he got off on his role as her protector, she let every bit of the fear she felt seep into her voice, swallowed hard, and shook her head. “I don’t know. I was taking food downstairs, just like I’d been told. All of a sudden”—she gulped for air—“two armed men crashed into me, and one of them punched me and pushed me down.” Crystal gingerly cupped the back of her head. “And then . . . I’m not sure. I . . .”

Bruno let out a sound that was almost a growl as he turned to the men behind him. “Check downstairs. Anyone else down there, shoot only to maim. We need answers first.” The men hustled to obey, their feet heavy on the carpeted steps.

“What else did you see? Think.” He shook her, the grip of his hands tightening, not an ounce of kindness visible in his gaze.

“Um, they were dressed in dark clothes. Had masks and guns. One seemed to be carrying something on his shoulder, but then the other guy hit me and I fell and they were out the door.” No way she could admit to what else she knew. That she’d seen the faces under the mask when she’d given them directions, especially since she’d
known
something wasn’t right. Such an admission would serve as a one-way ticket to hell of one variety or another—for her and maybe even her sister, too.

And she would do anything to make sure that never happened to either of them. Been there, done that, had the scars to prove it.

Bruno’s callused hands eased on her skin. Suddenly, he yanked her into a fierce, breath-stealing embrace. “I will kill them for touching you,” he said. The declaration was based more on outrage that his “property rights” had been violated when another man had dared touch her than actual concern. She knew that. But better his anger over her than suspicion of her.

Crystal burrowed into him, like she found solace in his arms. “I was so scared,” she whispered, relishing the adrenaline shakes that gave credibility to her words. Sometimes she worried she was too damn good at acting, that maybe every time she put on one of these little shows, she lost a little more of whatever capability for honesty she’d once possessed.

As abruptly as he’d pulled her in, he pushed her away. She wobbled on her heels. “Wait in my office. I’ll be back.” Grasping her jaw almost painfully, Bruno kissed her hard. His lips and tongue demanded she respond, so she did. And then he was gone, out the same door through which the prisoner’s saviors had gone.

Were they truly saviors? Were they even good guys? For the imprisoned man—whoever he was—she hoped so. Given Pretty Boy’s revulsion at her words, her gut told her they were. And if there was one thing she’d gotten better and better at over the past four years of living this life, it was reading people, seeing them for who they really were. And her gut told her that the man with the gray eyes
was
a savior.

Just not hers.

No, when she found a way out of this mess—and she would, for both her and Jenna—it was going to be because
Crystal
got them out. No such thing as white knights or Prince Charmings or caped crusaders in her life, that was for damn sure. The one time she’d thought otherwise, she’d ended up with a man who had no qualms about hitting her.

Alone in the dim hallway, the events of the past few moments sank in. Trembling, thoughts scattered, body aching, Crystal made her way down the dim hallway to the office suite. As she had a little while before, she let herself in and moved through the inner sanctum to Bruno’s office. Raised voices argued behind the door at the back of the suite. Crystal wanted no part of what might be going on in there. They’d wanted things
perfect
around here for Church’s deal, and she suspected part of it might’ve been carried out the back door mere minutes before. If Church was in there, he was going to be hungry for blood.

And she was rather fond of hers.

She slipped into Bruno’s office and held her breath as she closed the door so quietly, the latch didn’t even make a noise. Her body molded to the black leather sofa that filled one wall, and cold suddenly painted over her skin as if someone had cranked up the air-conditioning. What she wouldn’t have given for her comfy jeans and a sweatshirt instead of this ridiculous piece of lingerie.

Alone in the stillness of the room, the enormity of the risk she’d just taken for a complete stranger washed over her.

Tremors wracked her muscles, shaking her bones until the effort to hold it together hurt. So many times tonight she’d taken a chance. And for what? God, if she’d been seen talking to them, or hesitating before she screamed. Or if someone had noticed that the man hadn’t actually punched her. Jesus, what if any of it had been captured by one of the security cameras?

She’d been conscious of them at the time, and her gut told her she was probably okay there. There were far more out front than in the rear of the building given that access was usually controlled so tightly. With two exceptions, the cameras all monitored the external doors. The only other cameras recorded who came through the curtain from the club floor and who went into the back offices. So, yeah. It was probably fine.

Please, God, let it be fine.

Hugging herself, she just barely managed to keep it together. Her gaze went blurry as she stared at a spot on the far wall and willed her emotions under control.

“Sara,” she said, whispering her real name out loud. “Sara. Sara. Sara.” Sometimes, saying the name out loud, the name no one but Jenna ever called her anymore, was the only thing that made her feel present in her body. Once, there’d been a girl named Sara, and her life had been good. One day, Sara would live again. “Sara. Sara. Sara.”

Until then, she’d wait. And act. And survive.

S
till riding the buzz of last night’s op, Shane McCallan ran down the empty street, dodging potholes, garbage, and the occasional discarded needle, and attempted to clear his head of the shitstorm that had parked itself in his cranium overnight.