As Darkness Gathers (Dark Betrayals Book 2) (20 page)

I closed my eyes, lulled by the gentle tug on my scalp. “Does nothing ever shake you, Clay Gandy? You’re my . . . you’re a rock.” I pressed my lips together and felt my cheeks flush.

I heard the smile in his voice when he spoke. “I’m only a man. Things bother me.”

“Like what?”
 

“Bananas, ostriches, filing taxes, and . . .” He paused as if in deep thought, and I laughed.

“Be serious,” I said.

He leaned over and pressed his lips against my forehead. “Blind faith, zealous dogma, and overlooked injustice.”

I remembered what he’d said when I’d asked if he enjoyed his work. “What old wrong did you feel the need to right?”
 

His fingers stilled, and he was quiet for a long time. “I come from a long line of ruthless men,” he said, finally. “Men who were powerful in a small town, and who had no qualms about hurting others behind closed doors.” He resumed running his fingers through my hair. “It’s not a heritage I’m proud of, but my father was, and his father was. I grew up watching them destroy my mother and grandmother.”

His voice faded, and I was afraid to speak, so I waited.

“My father’s mistress, as he liked to call her, was another of his victims. Everyone knew about Saoirse, but no one talked about my father’s infidelity. And when he thought it was past time I learned my way around women, he took me to her.”

I realized I’d been holding my breath, and I let it out in a whisper. “How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”
 

Timothy’s age,
I thought, and my stomach roiled and then clenched at his humorless chuckle.
 

“Old enough, in my father’s opinion. And old enough to know what kind of games he and his friends and my grandfather played. If you could call them games.” The breath he released was rough, and he tightened his fingers in my hair. “Saoirse was old enough to be my mother, but we became friends. Neither of us wanted what my father tried to force on us, so defying him became our own game. And I . . . cared for her. I cared for her, and yet I did nothing to stop them. That’s what will always stand between Cormac and me. He did what I never had the courage to.”

“Cormac? Eloise’s husband?” I remembered the large, silent man from the hospital, the ferociousness about him, and the wolfish features.

“Saoirse was his mother.”

The picture forming in my head was becoming clearer—and more chilling. “What did . . .” I had to swallow before I could continue. “What did Cormac do?” I was afraid I already knew.
 

His voice was quiet and devoid of emotion when he said, “He killed my father to protect her.”

I grappled for something to say, but before I could form any words, he continued.
 

“My grandfather blackmailed her into testifying against Cormac at his sentencing, and she did. And then, before I could find a way to keep her safe, my grandfather killed her.”

I caught his hand and drew it to my cheek. I ached for him, a young boy who had only megalomaniacs to look up to, who had fashioned his own strength and depth of character. Who wore his charm as a shield, I realized.
 

I knew if I said anything, that armor would slip back into place. So I merely held him in a way he’d allow and hoped everything I felt for the boy he’d been and the man he’d made himself into was projected into my touch as I stroked my fingers along his forearm.
 

We sat like that for long minutes, until Clay’s breath escaped on a shuddered sigh and his thumb feathered over my lashes and followed the line of my cheek.

“I’ve never told anyone,” he said, his voice so raw and honest that my chest tightened.

“Thank you for telling me.”

He slid his hand down over my throat and tilted my head back with his thumb until it once again rested on the seat of the couch. He propped himself up on an elbow and leaned over me. “There’s no one I trust more,” he whispered.

It was too dark to distinguish his features or see the expression in his eyes, but his breath was warm on my lips. I stared into the shadow of his face, longing for light so I could glimpse what lay there. But more than that, I yearned for his kiss, to learn the texture and shape of his lips, to have him steal my breath only to replenish it.

A small sound caught in my chest, and I arched toward him.
 

Before our lips could do more than brush in a whisper of sensation, he pulled back to hover a breath away, his fingers coasting up and down the column of my throat. “You should try to get some sleep,” he murmured, and the words were a phantom caress against my lips.

I reached up and cupped the back of his head. His short hair was cool, his scalp warm. I slid my hand down to knead the back of his neck, and his flesh was even warmer there. “You are an incredible man, Clay Gandy. And I’m terribly thankful I’m able to call you a friend.”

“And I can say the same for you, Finch Rhodes.”

When I returned to my room and curled up in bed, I slept dreamlessly.

The next morning the FBI knocked on my door. They were interviewing all of the passengers from the flight, but they wouldn’t tell me whom they’d already spoken with. One of the agents was female, and I sat with her in my bedroom while Clay and the male agent spoke in the living room.
 

Agent Donnelly went over my entire work history with me. I told her of my relationships with my coworkers, and she asked about my personal life and my family.

“I understand you’ve also had some trouble lately.” She was an older woman with sterling hair and a no-nonsense way about her.

“Yes.” I detailed finding my car tires slashed and was able to tell her of the break-in with only a slight tremble in my voice.

“And your ex-boyfriend has been unreachable?”

“When I last spoke to the police, they hadn’t been able to get in touch with him, through home or work.”

“And Mr. Gandy. Your relationship with him?”

“We’re friends,” I said without hesitating, and Agent Donnelly nodded. “Can you tell me anything about what you’ve found so far?” I asked.

“We’re investigating airline employees who would have had access to the aircraft before the flight—ground personnel, maintenance, pilots. Other passengers, like I said, but it’s all confidential right now.”

“Why would someone intentionally sabotage an airplane?”

“We haven’t found anything conclusive yet, but it’s most likely an attack against the airline itself rather than against a specific individual.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “That’s all I have for you now, but you’ll be available if we have more questions for you?”

“Of course.”

I sank onto the couch after the two agents left and looped my hair behind my ears. “I feel like I’ve been dropped down a rabbit hole.” I blew out a breath. “I think I need coffee.”

“I checked this morning when I got up and couldn’t find any. If you feel comfortable staying here, I’ll go to the grocery store.”

I could feel the weight of his gaze as I glanced around the apartment.
 

We’d finally managed to clean and restore everything to order. It was my home again, not a crime scene. And I couldn’t continue to rely on Clay’s presence to feel safe.
 

I nodded. “I’ll be fine.” I told him my favorite brand of coffee beans and gave him directions to the supermarket.

“Set the alarm behind me.”

I did as he instructed and slid the deadbolts home.
 

The walls of the apartment seemed to creep closer about me as I leaned my ear against the door. Outside, I could hear the moan of the wind and the sound of a passing car. Somewhere in the building a baby cried.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I said aloud, even as I moved to the window and peered out.
 

The parking lot was almost empty. On the sidewalk across the street a woman passed with a small child. The toddler was bundled so heavily against the cold he waddled and had to cling to his mother’s hand to avoid toppling. A door slammed, and Ms. Zimmerman from upstairs soon hobbled across the parking lot to her car. It was as long as a boat and, as always, she bounced over the curb as she pulled onto the road.

After wandering through the apartment and checking all the closets, I stood in the middle of the living room and took a deep breath. As I let it out, I felt some of the fear gripping me slip away.

There was a knock at the door about an hour later. I strode over to unlock it and deactivate the alarm. “Did you get lost on the—” I opened the door and froze. “Jeremy.”

“Finch.”

“What are . . .” I swallowed and glanced over my shoulder into the empty apartment. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.”

My hand tightened on the doorknob. The shock of seeing him so soon on the heels of the FBI visit was unnerving. I didn’t want to be afraid of Jeremy, but an unease gripped me, and I couldn’t dismantle the tension between my shoulder blades. “The police have been looking for you.”
 

His nod was jerky. “I heard. May I come in?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I have company, and I don’t think—”

“It’ll only take a minute.” He shouldered past me, and I caught the scent of alcohol. He looked around. “You don’t have company. You lied. Why are you lying?”

I hesitantly closed the door. “Have you been drinking?”

His brow was furrowed. “Why would you lie? You don’t want to see me?”

“Jeremy!”
 

He blinked at my raised tone and nudged his glasses up his nose, knocking them askew.
 

“Have you been drinking?”

“A few beers. Are you hiding something from me?”

I stayed beside the door. “We’re not in a relationship anymore. I neither share anything with you, nor do I hide things from you.”

He started pacing the living room floor. “Why did you break up with me? I handed you my heart.”

“Jeremy, this isn’t—”

“
Why?
” he shouted, his face suffused with red.

I jumped, my unease morphing into fear. In the time we’d dated, I’d never heard him raise his voice. “B-because I suddenly realized that while I cared for you, I didn’t love you. And . . . and you deserve a woman who will and who can give you things I couldn’t.”

“That’s bullshit!” He took a step toward me, fists clenched.

I backed away and hit the alert button on the security panel. “I’m sorry it sounds that way, but—”

“What did you just do?”
 

I retreated further. “What do you mean?”

As he advanced, I skirted around him to stand in the middle of the living room.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Finch
. He was now between me and the door.

“You did something. Pressed some button on this.” He swayed on his feet and braced a hand against the wall to steady himself. “When did you get a security system? Did you call the police on me?”

I swallowed. This was the man I’d spent almost two years with. The man who had slept beside me, but I couldn’t quell the tremor that was taking over my limbs. “Please leave. You’re drunk. Please.”

“I only want to talk to you! You owe me that much.”

The couch caught the back of my knees, upsetting my balance, and I fell onto the cushions. I immediately scrambled to my feet and put the furniture between us.

He halted. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Should I be?” Anger suddenly rushed through me. “My tires were slashed, my home was broken into, and you’re nowhere to be found. Then you show up drunk, force your way in, and refuse to leave.” I was shouting now. “I am so goddamn tired of being scared!”

He blinked, shoved his glasses up his forehead, and rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t—” As he readjusted his glasses, his gaze fell on Clay’s jacket draped over the arm of the couch. “Whose is that?”

“You need to leave,” I said, my voice quiet and tired, the anger draining away as quickly as it had surfaced. In the distance, I heard the wail of approaching sirens. I moved past him to open the door, and he reached out in a whip-fast movement and latched on to my arm.