Secret Life Of Amy Bensen: Forsaken Part 11

"I told you-"

"You were feeling sick. You seem just fine now."

"I'm not you, a.s.shole, and I don't know if I'll ever be fine again." I watch her turn to rest her back on the seat, curling her knees to her chest. "Maybe you should stop blaming what happened on me in time to stop it from happening to us again."

"There is no 'us' and you'd be smart to remember that," I reply sharply. But as I find my way back onto the highway, on edge, I replay her warning in my head. My mind retraces every second at that car dealership. I've lingered on Gia as the guilty party because those goons were on us too soon after the salesman exited for it to have been his doing. But even if Gia somehow had a phone, I'm not sure she had time to call Sheridan and have those men arrive that quickly, either. Over and over I replay the events, with something hard and sharp biting at the back of my mind. I shove it away. I deny it.

Two hours into the drive, we're continuing our way to Denver, crossing through New Mexico's high desert country, and my mind hasn't slowed down yet. Gia, however, is breathing deeply, somehow sleeping on the floorboard she never even tried to get up from. That sharp, biting possibility I've been fighting is making me crazy, making me want to crawl out of my own skin. Finally, after what seems like miles and miles of nothing, a secluded rest stop appears. I quickly pull off the road down a tree-lined path to find a deserted parking area that is nothing more than a dirt road with a wooden, cabin-like structure next to it.

Parking, I sit there behind the wheel, my nerves jumping, as Gia stretches. "Are we 'here,' wherever it is we're supposed to be going?"

I exit the Escalade without answering, slamming the door shut. By the time I round the hood, Gia is exiting as well. "Oh, good," she murmurs. "I really need a bathroom."

She's adorable, pretty, so d.a.m.n innocent-which could all be a facade, only it doesn't f.u.c.king feel like one at all. I start walking toward the deserted building and she quickly catches up with me, taking the wooden steps to a porch that divides the men's and women's bathrooms.

Gia stops at the door to the women's restroom and faces me. "I guess we're double-teaming this again?"

I grab her and pull her to me. "Why were you in that bathroom?"

"I was weak. It all hit me and I started to cry. I'm not a crier. But I just-"

I kiss her, my fingers slicing into her hair, my tongue licking into her mouth. I need her. I need an escape, and I want nothing more than to yank her jeans down and f.u.c.k her right here, right now. She moans and wraps her arms around my neck, and I mold her close, trying to suppress what my mind is telling me. I lift her, my hands around her backside, carrying her into the bathroom.

As I shove her against the wall, our lips part and she whispers, "I hate that you hate me."

It's a jolt of reality that I need, and I set her down, turning away and leaning on the sink, my head dipped low, my breathing heavy. I do hate, but not Gia. I hate Sheridan, and Amy is going to hate me. Amy. I repeat her name in my head, willing her to be alive, and forcing myself to face what I've been avoiding. If Gia didn't call Sheridan and the salesman didn't either, that leaves only one option-and it's trouble.

Shoving off the sink, I remove the back of the cell phone, removing the SIM card and breaking it in half. Next I do the same with the phone, before walking into one of the stalls and flushing both down the toilet. Exiting I find Gia standing there, looking stunned. "What just happened?"

"I stopped blaming you. We need to go, and now." Her eyes go wide, and I close in on her, urging her out of the bathroom and down the steps. "Now," I say again, and she takes off running, with me on her heels. Inside the Escalade, I start the engine and back us the h.e.l.l out of what could easily become a trap.

Pulling onto the highway, I am not pleased to see just how few vehicles are on the road, leaving us standing out like a sore thumb. "You think we were tracked through your phone," Gia states.

"Yes," I confirm. "I called from that number over and over, and didn't block my number."

"You think that means the person you've been calling betrayed you?"

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. "No. I don't think he betrayed me."

"Oh." She pauses a moment, and adds, "This doesn't mean he's dead. It doesn't mean your sister isn't safe, either. It doesn't."

While her words are meant to offer comfort, I reject what will only make me weak and soft. "The only thing we know for certain is that you and I are alive, right here and now. Everything else is a question. And I do mean everything."

NINE.

GIA AND I are two hours from Denver when I start grilling her, wanting to take advantage of anything she might have learned about Sheridan after a year of working for him. I have her describe every visitor, every employee, every interaction she had with anyone and everyone. I ask a ton of questions about anyone who might resemble Meg, but get no answer that makes me believe that Meg has visited Sheridan or communicated with him, when I know d.a.m.n well that she did. Sheridan is too smart to make many mistakes, but too human not to make any.

By the time we hit the Denver city limits, I've stopped at a store to buy a phone and spent a good portion of time focusing my thoughts on a person of interest. A fortysomething, attractive blond woman who, per Gia's claims, started visiting Sheridan a month ago.

"They were intimate?" I ask. "You're sure?"

"Oh yes. Very sure."

"You saw them showing affection?"

"No. It was a vibe when they were together. A way that they looked at each other. The length of time they were behind closed doors together, often for hours."

"And you never knew who she worked for?"

"No, and I could never get to the sign-in register to find out who she was."

I arch a brow. "Why would you try?"

"Honestly? I don't know. There was just something about her that seemed odd."

"Odd. Okay. Did anyone else ever join their meetings?"

"Never. This isn't much help, is it?"

"It helps."

"But we don't know who she is."

"I'll find out."

We reach the exit that leads to Cherry Creek, the fast-developing area where I bought a number of investment properties years before-and the location where I've hidden Amy-and I tell myself to pa.s.s it by. I'll be looked for here, but I can't seem to care. I exit and stare at the road, completely still and focused, but adrenaline pulses through me, my heartbeat pounding in my temples.

"Chad," Gia prods gently. "What's wrong?"

That she can read me so easily is a sign that she's slipped beneath the walls I've erected around myself. "Aside from the present delay," I say, stopping at a light, "who said anything is wrong?"

"Your mood. The exit. What am I sensing? Are we close to your sister?"

I cut her a look. "If my sister is where she's supposed to be, yes." The light changes and I turn to the left and down the street leading to what should be Amy's new apartment, but I keep going, pa.s.sing it and the hotel directly across from it. I want to stop, but I have another destination in mind. "Stuff your hair in your jacket again," I order, grabbing the baseball cap and putting it on before taking another left.

"If you were betrayed, Chad, Sheridan could know where Amy is. Please tell me your plan isn't just to barge in and grab her. They could be waiting to grab you and her together."

"If Sheridan knew she was here, he'd already have her."

"You don't know that. Maybe she was a backup plan. We're both too tired to think through this clearly."

"There is no 'we.'"

"There is a 'we.' I'm here, and believe it or not, I put my life on the line for all of this."

I pull up in front of the Inn at Cherry Creek. "If he hasn't found her yet, I'm not wasting a moment that might let him. Grab your bag." I pop the door open and the doorman greets me, as does one on Gia's side. I give the man a nod, snag my duffel, and unzip it, palming him a large bill as I quietly say, "Keep my vehicle at the side of the building with the keys inside." He gives the tip a glance and his agreement is adamant and instant.

Gia rounds the hood of the vehicle and I lace my fingers with hers, leading her forward. "Chad-" she begins urgently.

"Kevin, while we're here," I tell her softly. "And you're Ashley, but I'd prefer you just not speak."

I don't have to turn to look at her as we enter the elegant boutique hotel's lobby to feel her glower. She steps in front of me, her palm flattening on my chest, and d.a.m.n it, my skin burns beneath her touch. "What about a trap?"

I cover her hand with mine. "You're asking for attention we don't need. We'll talk upstairs."

Her expression tightens, but she steps to my side and we walk to the high marble counter.

"Good evening," the sixtysomething, gray-haired attendant offers.

Giving the man a nod, I pull my wallet from my jeans pocket, sliding a credit card and a fake ID onto the counter. "We'll be staying two nights."

"All we have available is the executive suite."

"Fine."

"The cost-"

"Is fine." I look him straight in the eye, letting him see the various b.u.mps and bruises on my face. "And yes to everything you're going to offer. We had a car accident two days ago, and my wife is feeling under the weather. I'm eager to get her to a room, where she can rest."

The man's eyes widen and flicker to Gia. "I'm sorry, ma'am. We'll get you checked in quickly. I'm glad you're both okay."

"Thank you," Gia says, going along with the story. "I-we-do appreciate that."

I grimace at the jab but say nothing, and true to his word, in all of five minutes, the man has us on an elevator. Gia turns to me, and I to her.

I stare down at her, this woman, this stranger who could be an enemy, and while I do not want to be a fool, I don't believe that to be true anymore. And there is something about her and us I don't understand. I only know that whatever it is she stirs in me, it is raw and ripe with some kind of deep, cutting hurt, and yet somehow sweet, when I'd thought nothing could ever be sweet again. She is also the only reason I detoured to a hotel before going to my sister's apartment.

"Chad, we-"

"Kevin," I remind her, lacing my fingers into her hair, and without conscious thought, I am pressing my mouth to hers, and for a moment there is just her, us, and a caress of lips that could so easily, too easily, turn to white-hot pa.s.sion.

The elevator dings softly, destroying those few seconds of peace I'd found in Gia, and that I'd needed more than I'd realized. I lean back, refusing to look at her, refocusing on what is important, on why I needed that moment of peace, on the possibility that I may soon discover my sister isn't here.

Lacing my fingers with Gia's, I lead her with determined steps to the end of the hallway and open our door. The executive suite contains a living area with a flat-screen TV above a fireplace and a bedroom on either side.

"What is the plan?" Gia asks. "What are we doing?"

"We aren't doing anything. And you know the plan. I'm here to get my sister."

"Now? Where? How?"

"You know I'm not telling you that."

She makes a sound of frustration. "You have to have a plan that doesn't include charging in and grabbing her."

"I'm not grabbing her. I'm taking her to safety."

"Oh, G.o.d. You don't have a plan. I'm repeating myself here, but they could grab you and her together. Maybe that's the idea. Maybe they didn't have her, and they want her. Maybe they're following us."

"The only way that would happen is if you're involved, and I'm hoping like h.e.l.l that's not true."

"I'm not involved, but that doesn't mean they aren't watching her. Maybe they left her free in case you escaped, or they planned to show you pictures or videos of her to threaten you, but you escaped before they could. Please, Chad. Think about this. Don't go and get killed."

"Because I'm all that's keeping you alive, right?"

She flinches. "a.s.shole. For your information, right now I feel like I'm the only thing keeping you alive."

I shrug and turn. "I'll be back."

"I'm going with you."

"Not a chance in h.e.l.l."

I don't have time to argue with her. I drag her to the bathroom and shove her inside. "If I'm not back by the time the maids find you, I'm dead. Take that bag of cash strapped over your shoulder and the rest in the duffel I'm leaving behind, and get the h.e.l.l out of here. I'm not taking the Escalade, so it'll be here if you need it. And don't scream to get attention. It might be the wrong kind of attention, the kind that gets us both killed."

"Don't do this," she demands, and I shut the door, grab a chair from the desk behind me, and shove it under the doork.n.o.b.

"I'll be back," I promise, silently swearing to myself that it will be with my sister by my side.

"Chad! Wait! I need to tell you something."

I pause. "Yes?"

She's silent several beats before she says, "Please don't get killed. Please come back."

The plea is desperate, pa.s.sionate, as if she really does give a d.a.m.n about me. And d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l, it's hard to leave her behind, when I'm not sure I'll ever see her again.

WHEN I EXIT the hotel the doorman is quick to turn in my direction, but I hold up a hand, waving him and the use of the Escalade off. My walk through the high-end neighborhood is short. I travel a few blocks past little shops and a busy cross street filled with restaurants and a towering new high-rise under construction. This, like another half-dozen locations where I've acquired properties across the country, is meant to allow me the option of a safe haven if needed, while I slowly ama.s.s resources using the deeply disguised holding companies I've always known we'd need to stay off the radar of Sheridan and his cohorts.

With each step I take, I think of Amy. I haven't seen my sister, really seen her face-to-face, in six years. The idea of holding her and telling her that I love her has me shaking inside. The range of emotions we'll both feel if she's in the apartment I set up for her will be extreme and surreal, and while there will be relief and happiness for us both, I know her anger will come hard and fast. But I'll deal with it. If she's alive and well and I can touch her, hold her, if I can know she is safe, she can bust my chops all she wants. Please be there, I think. Please be angry and give me h.e.l.l.

My heart races as I cover yet another block, and I start to relive that moment almost two months ago now when Jared called me from overseas. He'd intercepted chatter from Sheridan's camp that had made it clear that the job Amy had taken in a New York museum had attracted their attention and tied her to our past. I'd missed that communication myself, and I still don't know how. But Jared had found it, and he was too far away to help. That one problem had forced me to tell Meg about Amy for the first time. I wonder now if the timing was all a setup, a way to get me to expose Amy's location, but I refuse to believe Jared was involved.

My pace quickens, the certainty that I'm about to find out if Amy survived my captivity turning seconds into what feels like hours. I enter the apartment complex foyer and skip the elevator, opting for the service stairs. I'm on the second floor in a flash, bursting through the doors and charging to the door that should be Amy's. I knock when I want to kick the door down. I knock some more until, with a shaking hand, I reach in my pocket and find the key I'd made years before. When I stick it inside the lock, it doesn't move.

Cursing under my breath, I dig in my pocket again and pull out a picking tool I'd grabbed from my bag somewhere in New Mexico and make fast work of opening the door. Before entering, I arm myself with my gun, and step forward. Shutting the door behind me, I stand there and listen for any noise, any sound that might tell me someone is here. I hear nothing. Not a d.a.m.n thing. Inching forward, I bring the completely empty apartment into view. I'd had it furnished in case Amy needed it, but those items aren't here now, and neither is she. Where the h.e.l.l is the furniture? Where the f.u.c.k is my sister?

I scan for clues, anything to tell me where Amy is, and my gaze catches on a note pinned to the wall. Rushing toward it, I stare at the plain white sheet of paper that contains only a typed phone number-as good as a ransom note.

I growl, pounding the wall over and over until my knuckles bleed. Time ceases to exist until I somehow come back to myself, to the room, and to my senses, and search the rest of the barren apartment. When I'm sure I'm alone, I shove my gun in the waistband of my jeans under my shirt and s.n.a.t.c.h my new phone that I picked up on our way to Denver, dialing the number typed on the piece of paper, pacing as the line rings. Once. Twice. Four times, and then a voice mail beep, with no outgoing message.

"Call me back, motherf.u.c.ker," I order roughly. "And if you hurt one hair on my sister's head, I swear to you I'll scalp you and bring popcorn to snack on as I watch you bleed to death." Ending the call, I stand there, inhaling heavily, as if my sense of smell might tell me if my sister was ever here. Logic overcomes me and it hits me that smell can't, but neighbors could.