The Redemption (34 page)

“Only if it involves whipped cream.”

“Well, fuck. Is there another way to do it?”

I grab the whipped cream canister. “If there is, I don’t want to know about it.”

Jonas’ phone rings on the nightstand and he scrambles to grab it. He looks at the screen. “Oh shit,” he mutters.

I know exactly what that means: Eric’s calling
.
We’ve known something was up since Eric called three hours ago to say it was time for Kat and the boys to start transferring all the money immediately. But exactly what the feds were planning to do, and when, we had no idea. I guess we’re about to find out.

“Hello?” Jonas says, answering his phone. “Hey, Eric. Yes.” I can hear his heartbeat from here. He listens for a moment. “All of it?” He rolls his eyes like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re sure?” He nods at me with wide eyes.
All of it,
he mouths. He flashes thumbs up.

Oh my God. Kat and the boys did it—they got the whole five hundred fifty-four million. Holy crap, we’re so effing
Ocean’s Eleven.
 

“Hang on a sec.” Jonas puts the phone to his chest. “The final number’s just over six hundred million,” he whispers. “They must have made some more deposits.” He puts the phone back to his ear. “Okay, sorry, what?”

My heart’s beating like a hummingbird’s wings.

“Right now?” Jonas motions frantically to the TV remote on my side of the bed and I toss it to him like it’s a hot potato. “What channel?” Jonas asks. “
Any
channel?” Jonas turns on the TV and flips past
Sponge Bob Square Pants
to the next channel. Bingo. There it is—a major, live-breaking news event—the kind of national story that lands on every major station at once. “Yeah, we’re watching. I’ll call you back.” He hangs up his phone. “Holy shit.”

On screen, a female reporter talks into a microphone and presses an earpiece into her ear. “Breaking News: Terrorist Threat Foiled in Las Vegas” scrolls beneath her on the screen. “...  a sophisticated terrorist plot uncovered here in Las Vegas,” the reporter is in the midst of saying. Behind the reporter, law enforcement officers in Kevlar vests march in and out of a nondescript building, carrying boxes. Wait, holy crap, that’s not just any nondescript building—that’s The Club’s crappy-ass building, the place where Jonas and I met Oksana and Max.

Jonas turns up the volume on the TV.

“Authorities have confirmed the terrorist organization has been plotting a large-scale attack on U.S. soil—possibly in Las Vegas. Details of the plot have not yet been released.”

Jonas grabs my thigh and squeezes it, but I’m too freaked out to squeeze back.

“What we know for certain is that the plot was, indeed, ‘sophisticated, imminent and massive,’ according to authorities—
and
that the terrorist organization has ties to the Russian government.”

“Oh shit,” Jonas says. “I think she just declared the start of the second Cold War.”

“No mention of the prostitution ring?” I ask.

“I guess not.”

“I repeat,” the reporter says, as if we didn’t hear her the first time, “federal authorities have thwarted an imminent terrorist attack here in Las Vegas—and we’re being told by reliable sources that the terrorist threat is somehow related to Russia’s recent bid for control of Ukraine.”

Oksana suddenly appears onscreen behind the reporter. She’s being escorted in handcuffs toward an unmarked car.

“There’s Oksana,” I gasp. Oksana looks shell-shocked—a deer in headlights.

“So far, fourteen people have been arrested in Las Vegas, four more in New York, and eight in Miami, all with confirmed ties to what’s being called the largest Russian terrorist cell ever discovered on U.S. soil.”

“Wow,” Jonas says. “That’s an interesting spin. Do they not know the difference between Russia and Ukraine?”

I can’t speak. This is surreal.

The reporter presses her earpiece into her ear. “I’m being told that two of the terrorists—excuse me, two of the
alleged
terrorists—are confirmed dead.”

Jonas jerks toward the television screen, suddenly mesmerized.

“Both men were killed in a shoot-out with law enforcement during the raid on the compound earlier today.”

Jonas makes a low sound I’ve only previously heard him make during sex.

“The two men reportedly brandished weapons at law enforcement officers . . .”

Jonas growls softly.

“. . . and multiple officers fired shots. Both men died immediately at the scene. No law enforcement officers were injured.” The reporter presses her earpiece into her ear. “We’re being advised by federal authorities that both men were known sympathizers of the Ukrainian separatist movement, but authorities are not yet releasing their identities.”

Jonas looks at me, his face aglow, his chest heaving with excitement. Holy moly, he looks positively euphoric. All of a sudden, he grabs my face and kisses me hard, like a mob boss ordering a hit, and when he pulls back from me, his eyes are on frickin’ fire.

“My precious baby,” he says. He makes an exuberant noise, his face flushed, and kisses me again. He pulls away again, his eyes sparkling. “Yes,” he says. “
Yes.
”

I’m in shock—a wet noodle. This is a lot to take in. They’re saying The Club is a terrorist organization? Max and Oksana are part of a “Russian terrorist cell” in Las Vegas? I’d expected to hear the words “prostitution ring” and maybe “organized crime” or “crime syndicate.” But “terrorist cell”? I never expected to hear those words in a million years, and especially not “Russian terrorist cell.”

Jonas flips through the channels quickly, confirming that, yes, this story is everywhere, and then he mutes the TV. He picks up his phone.

“Eric,” Jonas mutters, his voice low and intense. “Yeah, I saw. Fuck yeah. You’ve got the names?” His mouth tilts up into a crooked smile at whatever Eric’s saying on the other end of the line and his eyes flicker ferociously. “Thank you. Yeah, you, too. Absolutely.” Jonas hangs up and his smile widens.

Wow, that’s quite a grin on Jonas’ face—if I were to see it in a snapshot totally out of context, I’d swear the photo was taken while Jonas was getting a blowjob; he looks just that turned on.

“Boom,” Jonas says softly, his voice simmering with ferocity.

I pause, waiting for more. But apparently that’s all he’s going to say.

“Boom?” I ask.

He nods slowly, his eyes on fire.

I wait for more, but it doesn’t come.

Should I pretend to be confused by Jonas’ one-word proclamation of victory? Because I’m not. I’m not confused at all. The truth is I know exactly what names Eric just said to Jonas—no one needs to tell me which two alleged
terrorists
happened to die today. I continue staring at Jonas’ blazing eyes and an overwhelming kind of warmth spreads throughout my body.

“Boom, motherfuckers,” I say, my voice as sharp as the knife those fuckers used to slice my throat.

Jonas licks his lips slowly. “That’s right, baby.” He touches the inside of my thigh. “We fucked ‘em up the ass real good, didn’t we?”

I bite my lip. This just might be the sexiest moment of my entire life. “We sure did, love.”

“I’ve got the biggest boner right now,” Jonas says, lifting up the white sheet to prove it.

“Me, too,” I say, motioning to the invisible lady-boner on my naked lap.

Jonas chuckles. “Let me take you away today. I don’t want to wait another day to take you to my special place.” He gently caresses the inside of my thigh and my skin ignites under his touch.

“In a month,” I say. Oh God, I’m on fire.

“I don’t want to wait.”

“I know you don’t.”

“I want to go right now.”

“I know you do. But you have to wait.” I shudder as his fingers brush gently between my legs and drift over my sweet spot.

“I hate waiting.”

His expression morphs into his patented Jonas-is-a-great-white-shark-and-Sarah-is-a-defenseless-sea-lion smolder. His fingers brush between my legs again, right over my tip, making me throb.

“We did it, baby,” he says. “You’re safe.” His fingers begin caressing me in earnest. “We’re free.”

My breathing catches with excitement. He’s right. We’re free—free to begin our new life together. Free to do whatever the hell we want to do. And I know exactly where I want to start exercising my newfound freedom. Without warning, I crawl on top of him and take him into me, all the way, as deeply as I can, moaning softly as I do.

He exhales loudly. “You’re safe,” he says, closing his eyes. “My Magnificent Sarah.”

I exhale, too, a long, shaky breath, and begin moving slowly, ever so slowly, up and down and around, enjoying every sensation of his body fusing with mine.

“Let me take you away, baby,” he moans. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

“In a month,” I breathe.

“Bossy,” he says. He touches my breast and groans.

“We’ll stop in New York before we go home,” I say. “You can introduce me to your uncle and tell him about Climb and Conquer in person.”

He gently touches the scar on my ribcage. “Whatever you say, my love,” he says, moving his body with mine. “A quick stop in New York it is.” His hands move to my hips.

The intensity of my movement increases. He did it. Jonas protected me, just like he promised he would. Oh, yes, yes, yes, my
man
did whatever the
fuck
he had to do to protect me, his
woman
, from the bad guys. And I love him for it. I
fucking
love him for it. Oh, yes, yes, yes, I do. “Thank you, Jonas,” I growl, riding him with enthusiasm. “You’re my hero.”

“You’re my everything,” he replies. He grabs my butt with zeal. “God, I love this ass.” He slaps it.

“Mmm,” I say, because that’s all the conversation I’ve got left in me at this particular moment.

He did it. He protected me. We’re free. I could cry with joy and relief. I lean down and kiss him, enjoying the feeling of my erect nipples rubbing against his chest. For the first time since those bastards sliced me and stabbed me and left me bleeding out on a bathroom floor, I feel completely safe—carefree, in fact.

“You did it, Jonas.”

“
We
did it, baby,” he says, his voice straining. He’s on the verge of climax. He groans. “We did it together.”

Jonas
 

Sarah’s been talking up a storm the whole time we’ve been hiking up Mount Olympus behind our guide. Well, actually, she’s been Chatty Cathy ever since we boarded our flight for Greece three days ago, obviously relieved as hell to be done with her final exams.

I don’t mind Sarah holding up both ends of our conversation during this hike, not at all, because, for the last three weeks, as I’ve planned and plotted and waited for this special day to arrive, as I’ve gotten boners in my sleep dreaming about getting down on my knee, as I’ve daydreamed about asking her the magic question and yearned for the moment when I’m going to slip that ring on her finger (and it’s a fucking
epic
ring, by the way), I’ve increasingly lost my ability to function let alone speak with each slowly passing day. Jesus, by the time we boarded our flight three days ago, I was a total wreck.

I pat the pocket of my hiking pants. Yes, the little box is still there. I let out a long, shaky exhale. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’ll say yes, but it’s that one percent chance I’m about to get crushed that’s making me crazy. Yes, Sarah loves me, of course. But with Sarah, you never know what she might say or do in any situation. What if she’s got some bizarre idea about marriage being the death of a relationship or some other intractable prejudice against holy matrimony, thanks to the shit she witnessed as a kid? It’s entirely possible. I don’t think it’s likely, but she’s never once even
hinted
at wanting to get married—and neither have I, for that matter—so you just never know.

I tune into Sarah’s chatter for a moment. She’s talking about Josh and Kat—about how Kat was headed to L.A. for a long weekend when we left on our trip.

“Mmm hmm,” I say. I’m elated to hear things are going well for the Playboy and the Party Girl, I really am—and, actually, Josh hasn’t stopped talking about Kat since we left Vegas, so I’m not surprised at all—but I can’t concentrate on that right now.

When I planned our trip to Greece, I stupidly thought it’d be best for us to arrive, relax, get over our jetlag, explore Athens for a few days, and
then
climb Mount Olympus so I could ask her to be my wife. I truly didn’t understand how anticipating this moment would utterly consume me—how eating, sleeping, and simply conversing naturally would become a fucking impossibility. If I’d known, I would have planned this excursion for the first day of our trip.

“So I
think
I answered the question pretty well,” she’s saying. “But the whole question was totally ambiguous, you know? I feel like you could argue either side of the issue and be right.”

She must be talking about one of her final exams from last week—which one, I haven’t a clue.

“Sounds like you kicked ass with your answer,” I say. Hopefully, that’s the right thing to say at this particular moment.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, that calms me down, then. You certainly know your contracts backwards and forwards. But, hey, what about this question on the torts exam . . .?”

I pat my pants pocket. The little box is still there.

After today, she’ll be wearing my ring on her finger for the whole world to see and I’ll finally be able to breathe again. Thank God I booked that villa in Mykonos for tomorrow night instead of at the beginning of the trip. If I’d have booked Mykonos for
before
Mount Olympus, I never would have been able to enjoy it, paradise or not. This way, we’ll have four glorious days in Nirvana to celebrate our engagement—assuming we’ll be celebrating. Oh my God. Fuck me. If she says anything other than yes, I’m going to curl up and die on the spot.

“It’s almost like you can feel the ghosts from thousands of years ago, just floating around you, you know?” she says.