Reckoning and Ruin (21 page)

Chapter Forty-three

Train pulled on the black latex gloves. “What brought this on?”

I rolled up my sleeve. “I don't know. Talking with Hope. Sitting by the river. Being alone there, with everything flowing by.”

He had the CLOSED sign posted and his tools laid out on the table—the tattoo machine with the needle bar already attached, the round pot of black ink, and most importantly, the stencil of the image I'd given him, duplicated line for line on the thermal copier.

The cops had come by that morning, he said, asking if he'd seen me. He'd lied right to their official faces. They hadn't known to ask about the secret room—they were simply checking my known associates—but he'd have lied about that part too. Train was real clear about his allegiances.

“They'll be back later,” he said. “It's Friday night, and they keep a presence. You don't want to be around until things have quieted down.”

“I'll find someplace. If there's one thing Savannah doesn't lack, it's dark bars where people don't ask questions.”

Train wiped the inside of my wrist with antiseptic, then applied a thin layer of transfer solution. “I don't usually do last-minute ink. I prefer that people sit with their stuff a little while first. But I also know that in times of trouble and chaos, we sometimes need a reminder of what connects us to our Higher Power. We humans are ultimately not in charge of the world. And that's a very good thing.”

I flashed back to Rico's words—control freak, he'd called me, as flexible as a tire iron. I didn't know any other way, though. I'd shoved and elbowed my way through my parent's disapproval, through their deaths, through Hope and John's betrayals, countless smaller violations. And then I'd pushed myself into Trey's life…and found something bigger and deeper and realer than I'd imagined possible.

“You ever swim in the ocean?” I said.

Train shook his head. He smoothed the stencil on my skin, then applied pressure with the flat of his hand. The golden cross around his neck glittered in the early evening light.

“The ocean might seem calm on the surface, but riptides can come out of nowhere. Clear blue day and you're dying. You can see everybody on the beach—sunbathing, building sandcastles, picking up shells—and they don't have a clue. People think it's all screaming and arm waving, but it's not. Drowning is the quietest way to go.”

“So I've heard.” He peeled off the paper and checked the image. “That look okay to you?”

“Perfect.”

He blotted away the extra ink and reached for the tattoo machine. I heard the buzz of the needle, felt the first prick, right at the tender spot on the inside of my wrist. He was deep in the process now, like a meditation. I watched the lines blossom black against the canvas of my skin.

“And you can't fight a riptide,” I said. “It's relentless. And you can't give in, it'll suck you out to sea. You have to keep swimming parallel to the shore, slow and steady, and eventually it will let you go. You'll toss up on the beach like so much seaweed. But you'll be alive.”

Train kept his head bent. “So what is this little squiggle of ink I'm doing for you today? A life preserver in the face of life's riptides?”

I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes. “It's my reason to keep swimming, which is the closest thing I have to a Higher Power.”

***

An hour later, I had fresh new ink. Train handed me a tube of the after-care ointment he'd massaged into my traumatized skin, his special proprietary blend. I applied a bandage, which made me resemble a failed suicide, but new tattoos needed cover. I knew it was there, regardless, and that was what mattered.

I stood up to leave as Train's phone rang. He leaned over and squinted at the screen. “Hang on, it's Antonio.”

“Who?”

“My cousin down at Coastal. I told him to call me when they had an ID for release.”

“Coastal?”

“The ME's office.”

I went cold. The body in the river. I watched Train's end of the conversation. It didn't take long, but I knew the news long before he finished talking. The way his face loosened and fell, the way the breath he'd been holding trickled out. The way his voice went low and hushed.

“Yeah man, thanks. I appreciate it.”

He put the phone down, his black eyes wet. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Tai.”

“Don't say it.”

“I'm so sorry.”

I sat blinking in the chair. The memories flashed unbidden—John at the beach, John laughing with his head thrown back, John at Hope's arraignment in his secondhand suit and badly knotted cheap tie, John in my bed, John's clothes he'd left behind when he left me behind.

I started rolling down my sleeve. “I have to go.”

I went into the back room and started shoving my things in my bag. Train followed right behind me.

“Where?”

“To see Trey.”

“Chances are good that BOLO they got on you is about to become a warrant.”

“I know. But as soon as he hears this news, he'll try to find me. And if he can't, he might start decompensating again.”

I pulled my hair back in a ponytail. The skin inside my wrist stung, and I resisted the urge to rub it. I slipped the hoodie over my blouse. As much as I hated the skirt, it would have to stay. Perhaps it would be camouflage enough.

Train positioned himself between me and the exit. “And how do you plan on getting in the hotel? You know Savannah Metro has somebody watching that place.”

“Not 24/7 they don't. They have three hundred active warrants to deal with, plus four shootings this week alone. I'm a tiny fish in a giant pond of felons.” I pulled on my shoes. “Besides, there's always a back way in. Wherever employees sneak out to grab a cigarette, I can sneak in. And I still have the key card to Trey's room.”

Train frowned. “Do you still have your burner phone?”

“Yes.”

“You used it yet?”

“No.”

“Good. I have that number in my phone. Stay put for as long as you can at the hotel, and I'll text you when the coast is clear here. It'll be after midnight or so. Use the back door, and keep the lights off.”

“I'll try. But as soon as there's a warrant, you can't hide me here anymore. A person who knowingly aids another in escaping from lawful custody—”

“—shall upon conviction be punished by imprisonment for not less than one nor more than five years. I know the statute.” He raised his chin, steadied his gaze. “But the laws of the state of Georgia are not the laws I serve.”

I straightened my shoulders, scrubbed my eyes clean. God, he was sweet and sincere. And I knew he'd go to jail to protect me. But I couldn't let him do it.

“I gotta hurry,” I said.

He put out his hand. “May I send you off with a prayer?”

“A quick one.”

He took my hands in his, closed his eyes. But I kept mine wide open.

Chapter Forty-four

Trey was nowhere to be found.

His things were still in the room—stacks of charts and graphs on the desk, gym bag in the corner—but no phone, no wallet, no keys. Had he gotten dragged in for further questioning? Stepped out to meet someone? Gone for ice?

I shook off memories of the last time he'd vanished from his hotel room. There was no violence here, no overturned tables or upended couches, and Trey was not a man who would go without a fight. I pulled out my new phone and dialed his number, but I heard the key card in the door before I could press send.

He came in quietly, shutting the door behind himself, flipping the deadbolt. He stayed near the door, examining me with perplexed frustration. I examined him back. No tie, no jacket, white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow.

I smiled. “You don't look surprised to see me.”

His eyes flicked to the back corner, where I saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, just a floor lamp and luggage rack. And yet I knew there was a surveillance camera there, probably one of the test models he got to take home.

I ran a hand through my hair. “Not even a comment about the new color?”

“You're not supposed to be here. If the authorities—”

“Tell me to go and I will.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He shook his head. I went to him, my fingers trembling as I started unbuttoning his shirt. He didn't stop me, but he didn't respond either.

“Tai—”

“John's dead. It was his body they pulled out of the river. I got the news from Train's friend at the morgue.”

He flinched. “Oh. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too.” I focused on the buttons, slippery as pearls in my fingers. “I really didn't think it would shake out this way. I don't think I've quite comprehended it yet. It all seems unreal, like a bad dream.” I slid my fingers under his shirt. “Not like this. This seems real.”

He inhaled sharply, but instead of letting me have my way, he took my hands and held them in his. “You should sit down.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. Please.”

I let him pull me to the bed, where I sat on the edge. He sat next to me, his eyes roaming my face, trying to read the contents of my head in the curve of my features. But he was getting no traction.

“Why are you here?”

“I had to vacate my former premises for a little while. It was about to be crawling with the Friday night patrol.”

“Yes, but why did you come
here
?”

“I was worried you'd hear the news about John and try to find me.”

“Tai—”

“We agreed to stop hiding things from each other, not stop showing up. Correct?”

He considered. “Correct. And you're right, I might have…not been okay with this news. But I think I am.”

“You think?”

“I think. Being away from you has been…somewhat challenging.”

He dropped his gaze to the bedspread between us. I could see the toll our separation had taken in his furrowed brow and tight, clipped words. He was trying, so hard. I put my hand to his jawline, and he turned his face into my palm.

I wanted to tell him, using clear frank language, what I wanted him to do next. And that I wanted him to do it quick and hard, maybe up against the wall, so that I could forget for a few minutes anything but the scent of him, the sensation of skin on skin, the total obliteration he could provide. Before I could reach for him, though, he noticed the bandage on the inside of my wrist.

His frown deepened. “What happened? Are you hurt? Did someone—?”

“No, nothing like that.”

I peeled back the bandage and held up my hand so that he could see the fresh tattoo shimmering underneath. He canted his head as he studied the snaking licks of clean black ink. One word.
Trey.
In his own handwriting.

He raised his eyes. “When did you…how?”

“Train made a copy from the card you sent with the roses. And I put it where I could always see it, right on the pulse point. Because no matter what happens in my life—whether I brought it on myself or not—you're there. Because it's not so much that you show up, it's that you never leave. I wanted to make sure I never forgot that. Because I want to be that for you too.”

Trey didn't reply, but I saw the emotion flash in his eyes, his armor dropping. I felt the same way, cracked open, untethered. The heavy weight of the past severed now, still present, always present, but sinking down to where I could barely perceive it, at least for a few moments.

I pulled in a shaky breath. “I told you I loved you. It's been harder to let you love me. To accept that you could, that you do. So I decided to trust you. Who you were, who you are, who you will be. All of you, even the parts I don't know because you can't find the words.” I moved my hands to his waist, pulled his shirt free of his slacks. “All in, Trey. For better or worse.”

The words sounded like a vow, and I realized they were. Trey still hadn't spoken. I could feel the deep desire welling to the surface, the want and need that blurred his circuits and hazed his rational responses, rendering him appetite and longing. I kissed him and felt the succumbing, the yielding and giving way. He smelled of clean sweat and salt musk, and I kissed him deeper, tasting…

I pulled back. “Trey? Why do you taste like bourbon?” I buried my nose in the crook of his neck and inhaled deeply. “And your hair smells like cigarettes, why do you smell like cigarettes?”

He stared at me as if I'd lost my mind. “Because I've been in a bar for the last hour! Drinking bourbon!”

“What? Why?”

“Because you told me to!”

“I did not!”

He looked equal parts annoyed and baffled. “You sent me a text, saying to take a corner table at the Bar Bar, order two Maker's Marks, neat, drink one, and wait for further instructions.”

“Why would I do that? Especially not there, you hate places like that, all dank and crowded and…”

And then I figured it out. Apparently I wasn't the only one Finn was playing mind games with.

I smacked the bed. “Damn it! I'm gonna strangle her!”

“Who?”

“Finn!”

He frowned. “The detective?”

“Yes, her. Did you also get bizarre poetry? Maybe a weird Bible quote?”

“No.”

“Oh, you will. Wait and see. The woman has
designs
. But you know what?” I slid my arms around his waist. “I don't want to talk about her right now. I don't want to talk about anything out there. I want you.”

I kissed him again, running my fingers along the inside of his waistband. His breath caught, but he grabbed my hands when I reached for his belt buckle.

His voice was a whisper, sandpapered with want and need. “Slowly.”

I pulled my hands free. “I don't think so.”

He seized them again, pinning them between our bodies. Something burned in his eyes, something dark and irresistible and bloodwarm as summer tides. I nibbled the tender spot behind his ear, his never-fail erogenous zone, and he made a soft noise in the back of his throat. But he didn't let go of my hands.

I pulled back. “What is up with you? Is it the bourbon? Because if it is—”

“Not the bourbon.”

I tried to slip free again, and he tightened his grip, but that didn't matter. I could win this one if I wanted. I knew his pressure points, how to break him open on his own desire, draw him like an arrow and then loose him. I knew all these things, had learned them at his body as if it were an altar.

But he was asking something of me, not with words, and my body was answering in kind. He interlaced his fingers with mine, easing me backwards until I lay beneath him. He held my gaze as he released one hand, waited to see if I'd move. When I didn't, he unbuttoned my blouse, the fabric falling open at his touch. He was breathing harder, the blue of his eyes crystallizing, all edge. And I knew the edge for what it was, the line between. I'd seen it on the training mat, seen it behind the wheel of the Ferrari, seen it when he said he loved me. It was the line of total and irreversible commitment—no backtracking, no side roads, no detours.

His voice against my ear was rich and dusky and intoxicating. “You say you want me to be more…this. But you take control every time I try. You could take it now, if you want. You know I won't resist. But I am asking you…I'm asking…”

He exhaled slowly, not finding the words, but still sure of what he was trying to say. He trailed kisses down my neck, his entire body against me, all of him, so that I could know how much he wanted me, that it wasn't hesitation or uncertainty holding him back. That he was waiting for my permission, he submitted himself to that, and that alone.

“You said you were all in, Tai. Did you mean it?”

I could barely make my tongue work. “Yes.”

“Okay. Good. Because there's something…and I can't explain it, no matter how hard I try. I can't tell you. But I can show you. If you'll let me.”

And I knew what he was asking for, and it made me dizzy to think of giving it to him. I'd always been the one to do the undoing, not him. This was new territory, unexplored. But if there was one thing Trey knew how to work, it was fear, and he worked it expertly, channeling the chemicals sluicing through my blood, through his, into sensation and response.

He slid his hand along my jaw, his fingers tangling into my newly darkened hair. “Will you let me? Please?”

The skin at my wrist beat with every thrum of my pulse, and I stopped resisting, stopped fighting him for the reins, stepped right off that ledge into pure exhilarating freefall. I arched my head back against the pillow, letting him at my throat.

“Yes,” I said.