the agony he’d suffered over the years—didn’t matter anymore. It was ancient history. But Jamison still had a chance, and he would see that she got it. But first, he needed to… to…
His throat went tight. Wick cringed. He forced himself to move forward anyway and descended the stairs. The rank smell of stale alcohol rose, assaulting his senses as his warrior brothers filed in behind him. Multiple boots clanked out a rhythm on steel treads, joining the heavy thump of bass and the high-pitched shriek of a singer’s voice. Darkness descended and swelled, enclosing him inside a prison all his own. His night vision sparked, showing him the way as excitement turned to dread, congealing in the pit of his stomach.
God-awful words. Too bad neither changed the facts. Or lifted the curse of his kind.
A furrow between his brows, Wick paused at the bottom of the staircase. Decision time. Turn right toward the emergency exit, say “fuck it,” and pull a fast flash’n fly. Or go left into the alcohol-fueled oblivion of human frenzy. Shitkickers planted, hands curled into fists, he glanced through the open door into the club. Strobe lights backlit those closest to the entrance, holding male and female bodies in silhouette. Some congregated along the back bar, waiting for their drinks. Others stood intertwining, more interested in sex than the surroundings.
Wick’s heart squeezed, then rebounded, slamming the inside of his chest. Now or never. No easy choice. Especially considering escape lay a few feet away. A couple quick strides, one swift kick, and he’d be outside… in the alley beyond. Deep in the chill, breathing in crisp night air instead of female perfume, the smell of male sweat, and cigarette smoke.
Temptation lit him up. He leaned toward the exit.
A big hand landed on his shoulder.
Clenching his teeth, he glanced left. An uncompromising set of ruby-red eyes met his. Wick shook his head.
Venom tightened his grip. “Let’s go.”
Mouth gone dry, Wick couldn’t answer. He nodded instead and, putting one foot in front of the next, led the way into the last place he wanted to go.
4
As the back of the bed’s headboard bumped against the wall of her hospital room, J.?J. tried not to panic. Fear stuck it to her anyway, punching through to pierce her breastbone. The sharp barbs grabbed hold of her heart, sank deep, and stretched her thin, making it hard to concentrate, never mind control her reaction.
But she needed to. Right now. Before Griggs saw her expression and picked up her distress. The second that happened, she was cooked.
Flambeed with an extra order of screwed on the side.
A consummate manipulator, the slimy good-for-nothing guard would use it against her. Up the ante until nothing but dread remained. Anticipation, after all, was worse than reality. He knew it. So did she. Too bad she couldn’t stop the unease. Or stop her palms from sweating.
Curling her hand in the sheets, she wiped the moisture away as he approached the end of her bed. Handcuffs in hand, he swung the metal shackles around the tip of his finger. The move was pure intimidation, 100 percent wild, wild West, the kind of thing gunslingers did with their six-shooters. Twirl. Flip. Point and shoot. The weasel had it down cold.
Not that Ashford noticed.
The nurse was too busy getting her settled. Humming a god-awful tune, Ashford gave the bed one last jiggle, making sure it sat perpendicular to the wall behind J.?J., then bent to lock the wheels. Lovely, wasn’t it… that kind of obliviousness? J.?J. wished she possessed a touch of it. Maybe then her heart would stop thumping. Maybe then she could forget the threat, bury her head in the sand, and pretend she was safe for a change.
Maybe then the music would come back.
Her throat so tight she found it hard to breathe, J.?J. reached for her fallback. She needed a three-four beat. An up-tempo song. Any melody—a single note—would do, just as long as it blocked out the chaos rebounding between her temples once and for all.
Her gaze riveted to Griggs—and his imminent landing beside her bed—she found the beat on the third try. Rounding the bases like a baseball player at full throttle, the melody came home, sliding in to save her. Acoustic and raw, the guitar thrummed to life. The drums arrived next, snapping imaginary fingers inside her head. B-flat weighed in on the first stroke of piano keys and…
Thank God. The piece was fully formed. Only the lyrics stayed away, letting the refrain lead the way to sanity. J.?J. clung to the rhythm, let the music take her, and relaxed into the flow of composition like a sunbather in the noonday sun. Warm on her face. Hot in her soul. Beauty tempered by control and partnered with perfection. And as the symphonic sound melded, her body unlocked, allowing her to release the breath she’d been holding.
As air rushed from her lungs, Ashford grumbled. “Stupid… stubborn… lever.”
A double snick sounded a second before the nurse’s head popped up over the edge of the mattress. As she straightened, she smiled at J.?J.
“Did you get it?” J.?J. asked, stalling for time, trying her damnedest to ignore Griggs.
Ashford brushed her hands together. “Got it. You’re all set… won’t be rolling away on me anytime soon.”
A smug look on his face, the weasel snorted. “Wheels locked or not, I could’ve told you that.”
The nurse gave him a pointed look, and J.?J. tensed. Here it came. Any second now, he’d—
The cuffs rapped against the bed rail. Metal clanged, erupting in the quiet, bouncing off pale walls and a bank of bare windows. A violent twist of his hand, and the loop closed, locking the steel ring against the rail. The familiar
Too bad she’d never been much of a player. At least, when it came to poker.
The piano, however? Heck, she could play that puppy all day long. And as she rooted herself in the ascending refrain of a three-four beat, the steel grip on her wrist didn’t seem so bad. Neither did the weight. Or the cold against her skin. Griggs could go to hell… along with his nasty disposition and obvious agenda.
The asshole had one. Guaranteed. Otherwise he wouldn’t have pulled guard duty at the hospital. The question now? How far would he go to keep her quiet? No doubt all the way. She knew it from the look in his eyes. Smug. Victorious. Bastard to the absolute core. And as he squeezed the cuff a notch tighter around her wrist, J.?J. gave ground and flinched, shifting sideways on the mattress. The plaster cast dragged at her calf, weighing her leg down and…
God. She hated that he stood so close. Despised the warm rush of his breath and sound of his prison issue boots. And in that moment, J.?J. almost made a deal with the devil. She wanted him gone. She needed to get away. Couldn’t stand the cloying scent of his cheap cologne, or the—
“For the love of Pete, Officer.” Tone rift with disapproval, the nurse gestured to the handcuffs. “Is that really necessary?”
“Don’t let her baby blues fool you.” Expression impassive, he hooked his thumbs into the prison issue utility belt. As far as moves went, it was a good one. With his hands locked on the thick leather, he looked the part— poised, authoritative, and intimidating—with an added bonus. The pose drew attention to the gun holstered at his hip. “She’s a stone-cold killer.”
J.?J. clenched her teeth to keep from retorting. Nothing good would come from mouthing off. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could call him a liar. She’d done what she’d done. Taken aim and pulled the trigger. And as recall dredged up the past, her regret sank deep. It always did when she remembered that awful day. The memory was a permanent implant. Unshakable. Undeniable. The ghost she carried with her everywhere she went, so…
No. Little sense existed in fighting Griggs. Arguing—stating her case and all the extenuating circumstances —wouldn’t change the facts. J.?J. didn’t want them to either. She’d understood the consequences. Had gone in with
