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CHAPTER FIVE

VALE

We’ve crossed to the north side of town. It’s nowhere near where I live, but I’m not speaking. Snark, terror, or the truth keeps flying from my mouth.

It’s best kept shut.

For now.

Nash turns into a car dealership. Pressing a button on his rearview mirror, the security arms to the car lot swing open.

Once again, I’m shocked, but I don’t utter a peep this time.

He pulls around to the service bay at the back, pressing another button on his mirror. The last bay door on the right rolls open, and lights flicker on when we pull in. Pressing the button again, the bay door closes behind us as he cuts off the engine.

The silence is awkward. The stillness is weird while he stares at my profile. “Since when do you shut up?”

I turn my face away. “I’m busy ignoring you.”

“By all means.” He chuckles. “Make that your full-time career.”

Asshole.

I whip around.

“Does Alena know? Does she know her dad is really a murderous mafia dickhead with a rap sheet?”

“A dickhead? Yes. I grounded her so many times, I’m branded as such. And a rap sheet? Yes, she knows I have one. When she was a baby and I was seventeen, I landed in juvie for grand larceny. For stealing credit cards to pay for her diapers and food. I became a dad at sixteen and a dumbass thief to take care of her, but this…” he points between us, “she can’t ever know about.”

“What do you mean?” I point back and forth, too. “ This? There is no this . Unless you mean the car chase, the murder, and the mafia part.”

“Yes, I mean us , Vale.”

“Us?” I lean toward him. Now that we’re not gonna die— yet— I’m pissed. “Look here, Mr. Allen. My name’s not Bonnie, and you’re not Clyde. We’re not in this together.” He glares at me with stupid, sexy brown eyes. “And at least Clyde dressed in suits while you dress like you’re getting a colonoscopy at a golf club. Like you shop at Uptight Dad’s R’ Us. Like you?—”

“Are you done?”

I weave my neck. “I’m just getting started.”

He narrows his eyes, his burning glare dropping to my lap, and I glance down.

Dammit.

My white panties are exposed, and I blush, feeling a throbbing tingle right where he’s looking. Yanking my dress down, like I give a shit about modesty, I keep my pride. It’s my other weapon because he needs to stop seducing me with his glare.

So, I lift my chin and glare back.

He grips the steering wheel so tight, veins pop on his hand as he informs me, “You’re right, Vale. We are just getting started because now, you’re mine .”

Laughter. Or lunacy. Or both bubble up my throat, and I erupt, “I’m sorry. What? Yours ?” I nod. “Yeah, okay. That’ll happen. I’ll be possessed by a man like you can hold a fart in your hand.”

“Fuck.” He fights sudden laughter, throwing his scruffy chin up. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Yes, it is. Call Netflix. Because only in funny fiction will I ever belong to you.”

“I mean, you’re my responsibility now,” he seethes, controlling his tone. “We’re exposed. We’ve been burned, and until I’m certain who they are and that you’re safe, you belong to me. You do as I say, go where I go, stay by my side, and shut up when I tell you to. Understand?”

I smirk. “ No comprendo .”

He slams his fist on the center console. The plastic cracks, and I jump. “I’m fucking serious, Vale.”

I try opening the door, yanking at the handle, but it won’t budge. “What the hell?”

“Child locks.” He seems sadistically pleased about it.

“I’m not a fucking child! I’m twenty-nine, and?—”

“Then act like it. Appreciate the situation we’re in.”

“The situation you forced me into. It’s not my fault you’re a lying, controlling, criminal dickhead who thinks he’s Clark Kent and sucks as an Uber driver. I’m giving you a one-star review!”

I keep zinging him, and he cracks a smile.

And you know what makes me even madder than a cat being baptized?

Nash Allen has a breathtaking smile.

It’s rare. It’s beautiful. It’s bright. It reaches his eyes like a comet across the sky, and he goes from forty-something to a young golden god with tan skin and sexy, cropped, brown hair kissed by the sun. His beard is dark and neatly trimmed, framing his full lips that are almost pouty, but he’d never sulk.

No, apparently, he’s brutal and menacing and covered in black ink…

And his eyes?

Call it.

The time of death on my resistance to him is right now. Because without his glasses on, which I guess are fake, I can see Nash’s conflicted soul.

He’s staring back at me, studying me like never before, and my cheeks blush. Something I’ve buried deep inside remembers him—the only man I’ve trusted—and desire licks at my sex. Because I swear, he can read my filthy mind, too.

It makes his teeth snare his bottom lip as he stares at mine. So, I force myself to speak. “What’s our situation?”

He draws a long breath before answering, “Understand I can’t give you details. It’s for your safety. And understand that Alena doesn’t know; she can never know, and it’s for her safety, too.”

My pulse triples. “Is she safe?”

“Yes. She has a guard.”

“She does?” I’ve never seen one.

“Someone is secretly protecting her. I made sure of it. She’s fine.”

If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t trust it. I’d risk my life to make sure Alena is safe. She’s always been too sweet, and I’ve always been the bitch who protected her. When really? She saved me, too. I’d never trust anyone with her life except her father.

I know Nash was a deadbeat dad when she was born. He was sixteen, and so was Alena’s mom. They were never really a couple and struggled as teen parents. Then, Nash got sent to juvie, leaving Alena’s mom, Lainey, alone to raise her.

If it weren’t for their landlord, Ms. Faye, Alena would’ve ended up in the foster system. Lainey’s mom threw her out. She had no other family, so Ms. Faye helped her. She’s like Alena’s grandmother now.

But when Nash got out of juvie, he got his shit together as a dad and got involved. He worked his way through college while Lainey joined the Army. When she was deployed, Nash was the full-time parent until Alena turned ten and Lainey was killed in Iraq.

Then Nash became her only parent.

A year later, I met Alena. She had lost her mom. She was grieving and quiet, and middle school was cruel. She was bullied, and I was a bitch who hated the bitches bullying her even more. So, my twin, Blair, and I took her under our wing, and we’ve been together ever since.

And as infuriating as I found her over-protective father to be—he never let Alena sleep at my house, so I always slept at theirs—Mr. Allen gave me funny feelings. I didn’t understand them at thirteen.

Later, I realized precisely what they’re called, and I’ve been scared ever since.

So, here goes my mouth again. She’s aiming.

“What do we do now?” I ask. “Meet in the back room of a pizzeria and smoke cigars with a dozen made men and your Don? Wait. Are you a consigliere? Shouldn’t you be fat and bald?”

“No one’s Italian.”

“Damn.” My shoulders sag. “I love pizza.”

His lips curl up. “I can work on the fat and bald part if you like.”

“Since when is what I like part of this kidnapping?”

“You’re not being kidnapped.”

“You don’t own a dictionary.”

“I know what protection means.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re old and losing your hearing so let’s press rewind on our convo. Quote…” I drop my voice, growling, “ You’re mine now .”

Again, humor hitches his lips, but his nostrils flare, fighting it.

“Careful,” I warn, “when you fight your smile, your wrinkles get deeper.”

And sexier.

He pauses before answering, “I’ll take you home. I’ll make sure it’s safe. I’ll stay with you, and tomo?—”

“Stay? With me ? In my old studio apartment with one bed, one loveseat you’re way too tall to sleep on, and a kitchenette that collects dust? Are we freezing bras, too?”

“Keep. Your. Bra. On. ”

He says that with a voice so thick with taboo tension, a fire tornado swirls in my core, and I poke the flames. “I sleep nude.”

“You’ll sleep in pajamas, and I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Oh, okay, Father Allen.” I chuckle. “Gird your monastic loins because I manage a sex shop, so my pajamas ,” I air quote, “are another woman’s sexy lingerie.”

“Vale.” His tone drops so low, I bet his balls drop, too. “Keep. This. Professional .”

“I am professional .” I clip that last word. “I professionally manage the most exclusive sex shop in the South, wearing all their goods and testing all their toys to make sure they work and…”

He cocks an eyebrow. I don’t think he meant to, and shit…

He heard me.

He remembers me confessing my deepest, darkest secrets that only escaped in my manic moment, thinking I was going to die, and I can’t make him forget now.

It’s true; I don’t let anyone kiss me, I don’t let anyone love me, and I’ve never had an orgasm with a partner. I can only do it alone and … only when I think about that night by his pool.

File this under “I’m Screwed and Not in a Hot Way.” And when I think about that ?

“Fine,” I huff. “I’ll cut a hole in a bedsheet and wear it like a tent. Satisfied?”

“I’ll take you to work,” he proceeds. “I’ll sit with you, etcetera. Your boss knows I’m helping you with the books, so the ruse can remain.”

“The ruse? So what are you now? The Pope, Sherlock Holmes, and Al Capone all rolled up into a nerdy-looking, beefy golf pro?”

He leans forward.

I’ve pushed him too far; I can’t help it; I use snark when I’m scared.

“No, Vale.” His sexy lips snarl, and this time, he’s not amused. “I’m the beast keeping you alive.”