Inevitable Detour (22 page)

Bile rises in my throat. We can’t keep saying no. Farren
has
to talk business with this man. He needs to make a deal with Dawson. A deal that will result in keeping Haven—and me—safe.

That is why when Farren swiftly turns me around and bends me over the hood of Dawson’s limo, I don’t resist. I put up no fight when he yanks down my shorts and panties, and I don’t struggle when he places his hand on my lower back and urges me to arch my ass up high so Dawson can see all of me.

It’s all so humiliating, like I’m some object to display and apprise. But the worst part of all is that, because Farren is doing these things to me, my body starts to respond. And it doesn’t go unnoticed by Dawson.

“You’ve trained her well,” he comments lecherously. “She’s fucking soaked.”

I press the side of my face to the hood, tears hot as they stream down my cheeks. It’s true; my body is aroused. My camisole was never lowered enough to cover my breasts, and the heated steel my chest is pressed against feels surprisingly good against my sensitive nipples.

“Get her off,” Dawson says offhandedly, “and then we’ll talk business.”

I am so turned on that I’m not as repulsed as I should be by his request. I only crave relief. Still, I hate that this wicked old pervert will watch me come undone. I close my eyes and try to pretend it’s just me and Farren. When he slips his fingers into me, I tighten around him and let out a moan.

“She likes it already.” Dawson laughs.

Shut up
, I think, s
hut up
. I wish I could kill Dawson. I think Farren wishes he could kill him, too, as his movements become rougher and harsher. But Farren is still skilled enough with his fingers that I’m soon rocking my hips with the pace he sets.

I forget we’re not alone. I writhe on the hood of the limo as Farren works my clit with his thumb. When he twists his fingers, two of which are inside of me, in just the right way, I come.

Once my orgasm subsides and I am no longer aroused, I start to cry.

Farren lifts my limp body off the hood and slips my panties and shorts back up my legs. Quickly, he reclasps my bra and lowers my camisole completely.

The whole time he’s whispering in my ear, “I’m sorry, Essa. I am so sorry.”

When I turn around, I see Dawson is gone. “Where’d he go?” I whisper while I wipe away my tears.

Farren jerks his head toward the limo. “He’s in there, waiting to talk business. He said it was getting too hot to stand around out here.”

“I bet,” I scoff bitterly. “He’s probably in there jerking off after what he just saw.”

Farren cups my cheek, so much more gently than before. “Essalin, I’m so sorry I had to do that to you in front of him.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s not like we had much of a choice. I’m just glad he was satisfied with just you touching me.”

Farren’s eyes narrow. “I wasn’t about to let him touch you. I’d kill him first.”

“What about the fallout?”

“Fuck the fallout, Essa.”

Somehow, I know Farren is not kidding around. And the fact that he would rather kill than share me makes any humiliation I’ve endured today a little less horrible.

Still, I can’t wait to leave.

Farren sees my discomfort in my eyes and says, “We won’t be here much longer. Go back to the car, okay? Wait for me there. And, Essa…remember what I told you.”

I nod. I know Farren is referring to the gun he stashed under the seat. “Use it if it comes to that,” his expression says, before I turn and walk slowly back to the Ferrari.

I glance back when I’m almost to the car. Farren is getting into the limo to speak with the most disgusting man I’ve ever met.

This day can’t end soon enough.

T
welve minutes, that’s how long Farren is in the limo with Dawson when I start to panic.

“Shit,” I mutter.

Slowly, I adjust my hands around the .38 that’s resting in my lap. I’m not sure how much longer I should wait. Farren said to use the gun if things go badly. Is this too much time? Should I get out of the car and go rap on the limo window? I don’t know. I mean, how long should a meeting like this take?

I glance down at the weapon in my hands. I found the gun easily enough. It was right where Farren promised it would be—under the passenger seat. I retrieved it the second I was back in the car, right after I closed the door. I’ll use this gun if I need to. In fact, shooting Dawson would probably bring me a special kind of joy.

But my thoughts are just fantasies. Truthfully, I’m scared. Scared for me, scared for Farren, and scared this thing Farren is involved in is much more complex than I ever imagined.

Four more minutes pass, and, to my relief, Farren emerges from the limo. He appears to be fine, so my hold on the gun loosens. When he opens the driver’s-side door and slides in, I ask, “How’d it go?”

“It went well,” he replies as he puts on his seat belt. “Dawson is still hung up on the rogue story, which is a positive for us. I think I was able to convince him that I’m no longer a threat.” Farren lowers his gaze to the gun in my lap. “I’m glad you didn’t have to use that, Essa. But I’m happy you listened to me and had it available. Just in case.”

He takes the gun from me and slips it under his own seat.

I say softly, “I would’ve used it, Farren, if it meant saving you. I’d have been scared, yeah, but I would’ve done it.”

Farren places the Ferrari in reverse and slowly backs away from the limo, keeping his eyes on the unmoving car until we reach the gates.

“I don’t doubt it, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Soon enough we’re back on the road, on our way to where Rick has Haven.

“Will Haven be safe from here on out?” I inquire.

Farren nods. “She should be.”

“And me?” I say, voice shaky. “Will I be okay when I get back to school?”

Emerald eyes slide my way. “Are you thinking about taking summer classes, after all?”

“No,” I reply. “I still plan on spending the summer in New York City with you and Haven.”

“Good,” he says, sounding relieved.

That prompts me to divulge more. “I’m not really sure what I want anymore.”

This time with Farren is changing me…in the best kind of way. I’m learning who I am and what I want to do with my life, and, as I’ve known all along, it sure as hell isn’t something business-related.

“What are you saying?” he asks softly.

I take a breath. “I’ve been thinking about transferring somewhere different. Oakwood’s program is good, but there are far better schools out there for journalism.”

“Do you think your parents will go for that?” Farren wants to know.

I hear in his voice that he’s trying to gauge just how serious I am about changing schools.

“There’s always financial aid.” I laugh.

Farren chuckles as he places his hand on mine. “The colleges in New York have good financial-aid packages.” He pauses, then adds with a grin, “Plenty of good journalism programs to choose from, too.”

I interlock our fingers. “Are you suggesting I move to New York City?”

Please say yes. Please say yes
.

My heart beats hopeful beats, and then it soars when he responds, “If that’s what you really want to do, Essalin, you won’t get any argument from me.”

It’s not an out-and-out request for me to move, but it means something coming from Farren. If there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s that Farren Shaw is careful with his words.

He smiles over at me, and I whisper, “I’ll give it some serious thought, then.”

I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. Our eyes meet briefly before his gaze returns to the road.

In that fleeting glance, though, there is something in Farren’s eyes that belies his earlier words, his declaration of “I don’t come with promises.”

In his eyes is a promise of sorts—a promise of more.

A
s we travel the interstate, I watch as the mile markers whiz by. It’s mesmerizing, and before long I start to doze off. I sleep fitfully, though, curled up on the leather seat. When I wake at one point, bleary-eyed, we are driving through a thunderstorm. Sheets of rain pelt the car. Lulled by the sound, I fall back asleep. And by the next time I wake, it’s getting dark. Or maybe the sky is slate-colored due to the storm.

“Where are we?” I ask sleepily.

Farren reaches over and rubs my shoulder. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll wake you when we get to the safe house.”

I close my eyes. I rest.

I’m awakened sometime later, when one of the burner phones rings. It’s not mine, of course, so I resume sleeping.

And that is when I have the strangest dream.

Or is it real?

I dream that it’s Rick who is calling. Farren is asking him about Haven.

After a beat, Farren says, “Good, I’m glad she’s doing better.” And then, “I estimate we’ll be there in another hour.”

Earlier, when I was sleeping soundly, Farren must have talked to Rick and told him of his meeting with Dawson. I assume this because, after a long pause, Farren says into the phone, “Yeah, Dawson is a potential problem. I sense he knows I’m more than just some guy who went rogue.”

Wait, what? Farren told me Dawson still believed the rogue story and bought that Farren was giving it up.

Confusing me even more, Farren then says, “No, no, he made no mention of Barnes. But I think he suspects he’s involved. Dawson is starting to put two and two together.”

Rick says something, to which Farren murmurs, “No, not at all. She still has no clue who Barnes really is…and I intend to keep it that way.”

What? Does Farren mean me or Haven? Maybe Farren is referring to us both? So what does Haven not know? Or, more importantly, what do
I
not know?

One thing is for sure; I am fully awake now. This is no dream. I continue to feign sleep, though, so I can listen.

Farren chuckles humorlessly. “Rick, there’s no way Dawson knows who Quinton Barnes
really
is. He has no clue of my connection to him in general, let alone…” His voice trails off, and I feel Farren’s eyes on me, assessing if I’m really asleep like I’m pretending to be.

“Hey,” he says softly to Rick, “we’ll discuss this in more detail when I arrive.” He then ends the call.

Damn. This man is too attuned. He knows I’m just pretending to sleep.

Sure enough, he says my name. And when I don’t answer, he says a little louder, “Essalin, I know you’re awake.”

Sighing, I roll from one shoulder to the other until I’m facing him. “Sorry,” I whisper, my eyes downcast. When I receive no response, I rub my eyes and sit up straight. “Why did you tell me things went well with Dawson?” I bravely ask.

“Because they did,” Farren replies flatly.

“But you originally said Dawson knew nothing of the man you really work for, this Barnes guy.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, I heard what you said to Rick.” I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “So, who is this Quinton Barnes? What’s your real connection to him?”

Wow, I am really overstepping my boundaries, and it’s never been clearer than when Farren levels me with a look that shouts that I’ve asked way more than I should have.

Still, he gives me an answer. But, unfortunately, it’s the same crap he’s maintained from the day he first told me about Barnes. “I work for Mr. Barnes, Essalin. There’s nothing more to tell.”

I accept his answer. But I don’t believe it for a minute. And in the spirit of my future journalism—
investigative
journalism—career, I resolve to find out just how Farren Shaw is connected to a mysterious, exorbitantly wealthy man who lost a daughter to human trafficking.

I
’m surprised when Farren exits the highway just outside of Las Cruces and drives straight to a middle-class, suburban subdivision.

“I thought we were going to where Rick has Haven hidden?” I say.

“We are,” he informs me. “The safe house is within this subdivision.”

I glance around and say, “This neighborhood looks too ordinary, Farren. Like where Walter White lived before he
really
broke bad.”

Farren laughs. “So you’re a
Breaking Bad
fan, too?”

“Yep.” I nod. “I’m sad it ended.”