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  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chase

  I eyed the scotch on the table and poured myself a healthy dose of liquid and tossed back the contents, all before taking a seat next to Mil’s spot on the floor.

  “So.” She tried her best to cover herself with the blanket but failed miserably. I hated myself that I was actually staring. But I was a guy; who would—could—blame me? I couldn’t decide if I was more embarrassed of the past we shared or the fact that everyone else in the room most likely knew about my feelings for Trace, too, and pitied me while I sat on the floor with the girl I’d lost my virginity to. “You look good.”

  “I’d say the same”—I cursed and pulled the blanket around her—“but you look like hell.”

  She shrugged and pulled the blanket higher, exposing her foot. “Did you get hurt?”

  She took the drink from my hand and motioned for me to pour her more scotch. After she took a sip she sighed. “Nixon shot me.”

  “In the foot?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “To prove a point, the jackass.”

  I tried to hide my smile. “He may be an ass but at least he’s protecting you. Why is he protecting you, by the way? And why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be at some boarding school in Florida?”

  “Not when I’m needed here.” Her eyes drooped as did her hand. I reached for the glass and set it on the floor.

  “Mil,” I urged, trying to use a nice voice considering I’d just had a gun aimed at her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “You have any regrets, Chase?”

  Um, seriously? I looked back down the hall. Regrets. Nice, I freaking hated that word. It seemed to define everything that was happening in my life lately.

  I regretted that I loved Tracey.

  I wished I didn’t.

  But I did.

  I regretted that I’d do anything to have her.

  And I regretted that in the end, it was Nixon in that bedroom and not me. So I answered, “Sure, I think everyone does.”

  “I have lots.”

  “Am I one of them?” I joked.

  She laughed. I’d forgotten how pretty her laugh was. It was what attracted me to her in the first place. She’d always laughed like she didn’t give a rat’s ass if people heard her. She’d throw her head back and put her entire body into it; her entire face lit up like a Christmas tree and I was drawn into her web. Scary that some fourteen-year-old girls are born to look more like they’re twenty-two.

  “Nah.” She looked up with her bright blue eyes and shrugged. “You weren’t a regret.”

  “A mistake?”

  “Yeah, I’ll drink to that.” She laughed again. For some reason it made me feel better, like if I focused on my past, my future wouldn’t look so bleak. “I hated you for a long time, Chase Winter.”

  “Hated, as in past tense?”

  “Oops, I slipped. I meant ‘hate.’ ”

  “Noted.”

  “You seduced me.”

  “I was sixteen and it was hardly a seduction, Mil. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

  “Clearly, you didn’t.”

  “Very funny.”

  She licked her lips. “I don’t regret you, Chase, so stop feeling sorry for yourself. And if you look down that hall one more time I’m going to smack you.”

  “I’m that obvious?”

  She shook her head. “You’re pathetic. Sure you don’t want me to shoot you and put you out of your misery?”

  “Ask me later.” I took another drink of scotch and winced.

  “I regret not being there for him,” Mil said in a quiet voice. “I regret that when he needed me most, I didn’t believe him. Not until it was too late.”

  “It’s never too late, Mil.” I put my arm around her. “I promise, there’s always a chance.” I had to believe the words I was saying, because if I was wrong then that meant my future was just as bleak as hers. Wow, we really were pathetic.

  “You talking about Phoenix?” I asked after a few minutes of silence.

  “He’s my stepbrother.” She yawned. “And I think I’m too late. I don’t know if Nixon can fix it.”

  “Fix what?” My hair stood on end. What did she know that I didn’t? “Mil?” I shook her a bit. “If Nixon can fix what?”

  “Do you think we go to heaven?” She’d changed the subject again. Clearly the drugs really were kicking in.

  “Mil?”

  “Nixon said yes.” Her eyes fluttered open and then closed. “If he can’t fix it, I hope he does.”

  “Does what?” I whispered.

  “Go to heaven.” And then she slumped against me.

  With a curse, I rose to my feet and picked her up into my arms. I wasn’t sure where Nixon was keeping her, but I knew she’d have one hell of a headache if she slept on the floor like that. So I walked her into the room next to mine and laid her down on the bed.

  It really was a shame I was in love with someone else.

  Because I needed some female companionship.

  Not that Mil would offer.

  Shit, how lucky was I? The one girl I loved didn’t even know it and sure as hell didn’t love me back like that, and the only other one I could trust with my secrets and lifestyle wanted to shoot me in the face.

  I backed out of the room and walked slowly by Nixon’s.

  It was the silence that did it for me.

  It killed me inside.

  And then I heard Trace laugh.

  And I felt like I had been killed all over again. How many times can a guy experience death before he’s ready to allow it to consume him? I went in search of more scotch and promised myself I’d try harder with Trace. I’d make her want me. I’d make her choose me.

  In the end, I was better for her. She just didn’t see it because all she could see was Nixon, but if I could change that… If he could just… stay out of the picture like he’d promised. We’d have a chance. In the end, hurting her, in order to gain her? It seemed like it was worth it. I knew being away from Nixon was difficult for her—but I couldn’t give a damn if he stayed away forever. Because he was stealing my reason for living. And when she was gone, I wouldn’t feel so much like living anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Nixon

  Emiliana’s information felt like it had left a burning gaping hole in the back of my brain.

  Not my father, not his son. Not who I thought I was. Talk about a major identity crisis. It didn’t help that Angelo had nothing on Uncle Tony. Nothing sketchy. The man was squeaky clean. He went golfing in the afternoons, drank brandy at night, made sure to check in with his many businesses and went to bed at eleven every damn night.

  Something wasn’t adding up and I knew that I couldn’t figure it out on my own. I needed help and a plan, one that would potentially hurt me more than anyone. But it was hopeless. Knowing what I did—my future was hopeless. And if I didn’t do something soon—Trace’s would be, too.

  It was harder than I thought it would be. Damn, I wanted to wake up from this nightmare. But no matter how hard I shook my head, how many drinks I had, my reality was the same.

  I was going to go for broke.

  I had one trick, and one trick only; and after hearing everything Emiliana had to say, I knew—my real father? He’d stop at nothing to gain control of the family, and now it was time to flush him out.

  “I need your grandmother’s diary,” I told Trace.

  “What?” Trace smiled. “I thought we were going to all read it together.”

  “That was before.”

  “Before?” Her eyebrows arched in question. “Before what?”

  “Before now.” I shrugged. “May I please have it? I promise I’ll return it as soon as I can.”

  “Why do you need it?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “How long will you have it?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  “Nixon.” She said my nam
e like an expletive. “What the hell is going on?”

  Oh nothing… just lots and lots of lying, death, love, tragedy. Forget TV. This was way worse.

  “The diary has some information in it, a few missing pieces that I need to put together.”

  “So it’s like a puzzle piece.” She chewed her lower lip and walked over to my bed. I caught a whiff of her sweet perfume as she sat on the end and folded her arms across her chest.

  “Kind of.” I shrugged.

  “Okay.” She didn’t look at me. “You can have the diary—”

  “Thank you.” I exhaled in relief.

  “But.” She looked up at me. “I want something in return.”

  “Didn’t know we were negotiating.” I chuckled. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to hold me.”

  Stunned, I stared at her. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Trace stood and grabbed my hands. “Call it paranoia, but… I feel like something’s wrong. You aren’t acting like your bossy self.”

  I looked away but she grabbed my chin and forced me to look at her. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  Unable to lie, I nodded my head. “Yeah, Trace. It’s bad.”

  “And my grandmother’s journal will help you?”

  “It helps my case, yes. I promise I’ll bring it back—and put it where I’ll always be. By your heart.”

  She shuddered. “And if it doesn’t help your case? What happens?”

  I’d ruin everything if I told her the truth. It had to happen exactly as I’d imagined it in my head, but damn if I didn’t feel the walls closing in as I watched her watch me. I’d always wondered what it would be like, to say good-bye to someone you loved, knowing good and well that you’d never be able to feel the warmth of their skin on yours ever again.

  I didn’t want this for us. I still don’t want it for us, but to save her—well, I’d go to the ends of the earth if it meant protecting her—if it meant fighting this battle for her. She could point a gun at my head and I’d still do it. I’d still fight as long as I had energy to do so… After all, if something doesn’t cost you absolutely everything—did you ever truly love it in the first place?

  She would cost me everything I had.

  And that very fact put a smile on my face. Was she worth it?

  I gave her a sad smile. Hell yeah, she would always be worth it.

  “Trace.” I cupped her face. “I need you to listen to me.”

  “Nixon, you’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t be afraid.” I kissed her forehead. “I need you to trust me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you.”

  “Nixon I—”

  “I’m not finished.” I pressed my finger against her lips. “I would die before I let anything happen to you, but—”

  “But?”

  I smiled. “But, sometimes in life, things don’t end how we want them to. Sometimes, what we want to happen and what has to happen are two very different things.”

  “Nixon.” Her lips pressed against mine, softly, and then more urgently as she grabbed me. “Please don’t leave me, please. I don’t think I can take it if you do. I don’t know what I’ll do if you leave.”

  “Who says I’m leaving?”

  “Your eyes,” she whispered. “You’re saying good-bye. Damn it, Why are you saying good-bye?”

  I sighed, touching my forehead to hers. “Sweetheart, I’m only going away for a while, okay? Remember that. If you remember nothing else, remember that. I’m going away. But I’ll always be here.” I pressed my hand to her chest. “And when the time is right…” I kissed her lips and then grazed them with my fingers. “I’ll be right here, kissing you, loving you, being with you and only you.”

  “Swear it.” Trace wrapped her arms around my neck. “Swear it or I swear I’ll hunt you down myself.”

  Laughing, I kissed her nose. “I swear it.

  “Good-bye.” Emotion clogged the back of my throat.

  “Bye.” She closed her eyes and kissed me hard on the mouth.

  “Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,” I repeated over and over again as I lifted her shirt over her head and helped her pull off mine.

  We didn’t speak.

  I wasn’t sure I could say anything. I was afraid to ruin the magical moment that we were currently living in.

  She knew.

  I knew.

  And we needed each other more than anything else in the world.

  Just this once… after all… every man on death row gets one final wish, right?

  I tugged her down onto the bed and hovered over her. Trace reached up and trailed her hands over her favorite tattoo. I closed my eyes. Her touch was almost like a burn, so powerful, so perfect.

  Kissing her neck was my perfection, my last meal, my last drink, my last everything. I wanted to memorize the exact moment my lips touched her neck, the exact minute she screamed out my name.

  The second she found her pleasure.

  Her lips found mine again as our tongues twisted together, fighting, coaxing, tasting.

  More clothes were discarded and then it was pure skin. Hot, soft skin pressed against all of me.

  “Are you sure?” I whispered.

  A tear streamed down her face as she nodded. “Yes.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been that selfish. To take the one thing I knew she had to offer another man. But I wanted it. I wanted her and if I couldn’t have her forever, I at least wanted a part of her that would be no one else’s.

  I wanted to hate Chase in that moment.

  I wanted to hate him for being able to touch her in places I wouldn’t be able to. I despised that it would be his lips that kissed the part of her hips where her long legs met the rest of her body, where her soft curves invited and begged a man’s touch. Promising him nights of pleasure.

  “I love you.” I gripped the headboard and looked down at her. “I love you so damn much.”

  “I love you, too.” She arched beneath me and pulled me down to her.

  * * *

  We stayed in my room the rest of the night. I knew Chase assumed what was going on and was probably either drunk or just really pissed off.

  At two a.m. I needed to go. I grabbed my stuff and the journal Trace had given me permission to use.

  One final kiss on her shoulder, and I was out the door. I got into my car and started it.

  Did I have the balls to do this?

  No.

  But my heart left me no other choice.

  I sighed as the smell of Trace floated around me. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have allowed her to freely give her heart to someone else, because if things went badly, she’d forever hate me for stealing that one thing that some other man should have gotten.

  A battle raged inside of me. I felt guilty and thankful at the same time. I didn’t want to be that guy. The one that pressured a girl into sleeping with him by saying lame crap like, “If this is our last night together… blah blah blah.” No, hell no. It was so much more than that. It was my own selfish need to know that for the rest of her life, she would remember me. I had this paralyzing need to mark her as mine—even though I knew in the end the odds weren’t in favor of us—but of them.

  Girls always remembered things like that.

  Their first kiss.

  Their first time.

  Only usually, good girls, girls like sweet innocent Trace, gave that first time to their husbands, and only them.

  I wondered if she’d be thankful or upset.

  I couldn’t find it in my heart to regret what I’d done, because I truly was hanging on to every ounce of love Trace gave me, to get through the night. To do what I had to do.

  It was my death row.

  My last sentence.

  I prayed.

  Maybe God truly was that forgiving, that after all the sin I’d committed in my life for my family, in the name of blood—he’d still be gracious enough to protect her while I knew I couldn’t.

&nb
sp; The drive was short. As those drives typically are, the one time you want to dally, and all the lights are green and there’s no traffic.

  Campus security was high as per my instructions. I unlocked the Space and let myself in. I couldn’t kill him, but there was something else I could do.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Phoenix

  The door handle turned. So this was it. I was going to die. I wish I could say I wasn’t terrified. Would it hurt? Would I even feel pain and fear? Or would it be over so fast that I’d just feel nothing but my body finally resting? Nixon walked into the light. He had a garbage bag in one hand and his gun in the other.

  “Phoenix.” Nixon said my name slowly, purposefully. Aw shit, he’d come alone. Which meant I was going to get a hell of a lot more than a bullet to the head. Visions of knives, bloody knuckles, and syringes came to mind.

  “Nixon.” I couldn’t help the shaking in my voice. I knew what was coming, I wasn’t totally fearless.

  “I’m giving you one last chance to tell me the truth.”

  “Never was really good with the whole honesty thing.” I smirked. “I think I’ll take my chances with death.”

  “Damn it!” Nixon kicked the table next to me and then with a curse threw it over onto its side, causing dust to explode into the air. “Why is it,” he said, voice strained, “that out of all the shit we’ve been through—now’s the time you’ve decided to develop a conscience?”

  I shrugged, trying to act indifferent.

  Nixon gripped my shirt and pulled me to my feet then slapped me so hard across the face I felt it all the way down to my toenails. The sting throbbed as he pushed me backward, making the chair that was attached to me twist my arms in such a way that I’m surprised nothing broke.

  I’d seen Nixon pissed and I’d seen him calm as hell when he was interrogating, but this side of Nixon? It was nothing short of desperation.

  “I can’t,” he finally whispered under his breath. “I’m sorry, Phoenix. I know I promised you, but I can’t.”

  With a final shake of his head he walked over to the exposed bathroom in the corner and began grabbing towels. He ran water into a large bucket. Seconds later he was dumping the bucket over my face, and for a second I thought he was going to waterlog me. It took me a few minutes to realize what he was actually doing—cleaning me up.