Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (17 page)

“We?”

“Me and Tinkerbell.”

He gives me a skeptical look.

“I’m not crazy.” I sigh again, louder this time. “There was a girl. Tiny, cute as a button, cursed like a sailor. She got me out through a storm door, we ran like hell, and then she gave me the burner phone and told me to call for help.”

“And where is…” His teeth saw back and forth, jaw clenched. “
Tinkerbell
now?”

I shrug. “Beats me. She took off a few minutes before I called you.”

His hand curls into a fist and begins to pound against the countertop in rhythmic strikes. “And you’d never seen her before?”

“No.”

“She didn’t tell you who she was?”

“No. And I don’t think
Tinkerbell
is her given name, if that’s what you’re asking.” I roll my eyes. “I just didn’t know what else to call her.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Start at the beginning. Tell me all of it.”

“The
beginning
beginning? Like, how far back are we talking? The gallery opening? The date? Or the part when I woke up in a mildewy basement, was held for ransom, and got punched in the eye socket twice?” My head tilts. “You know, I look kinda like Ronda Rousey after a cage fight. Or a raccoon.” I shrug lightly. “All in all, I think it’s a good look on me. Dark shadows are really
in
this spring, you know?”

His face turns to stone when I say that.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “Too soon?”

His jaw ticks. “I called you. Your voice was slurring, you were drunk. I knew something was off, but I didn’t know where you were. Why don’t you start with whatever happened when we got disconnected.”

It’s not a suggestion.

“I wasn’t drunk. I was drugged.” My voice is barely audible.

He goes still. “What was that?”

“He slipped something in my drink. I don’t…” I swallow. “I don’t remember anything from the time he grabbed my phone until I woke up in that basement.”

“Did he—” His words break off abruptly and I know he’s fighting for control. His fist picks up pace as it smacks against the countertop.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I flinch with each hit.

“Did—” He starts again. “Did the motherfucker
touch
you?”

I know he’s not talking about the bruises around my eyes. The worry in his voice, buried not so deep beneath the anger, makes me reach across the counter and lay my hand over his clenched fist. My fingers look tiny against the broad width of his grip. The pounding stops when our eyes meet.

“No.” I hold his stare. “He didn’t touch me. Not like that.”

Some of the tension slips out of him and he nods sharply for me to continue.

“When I came to, I was in a basement. There was nothing around — just a few broken bar stools, some dusty boxes. Padraic and Cormack were there.” I know I should move my hand away, but I can’t seem to let go. “They talked about a man named Mac.”

The name means nothing to me, but it clearly means something to Nate judging by the way he goes still.

“You’re sure they used that name?” he asks, eyes active.

I nod.

“Fuck.” He pushes away from the counter, disengaging his hand from mine in a swift move, and starts to pace. “Fuck. I figured they were acting alone, but if Mac’s involved…”

“Who the hell is Mac?”

He doesn’t even glance my way. “No one you want to know.”

I hop off my barstool and circle around to him. When he doesn’t look at me, I plant myself firmly in his path with my hands on my hips. I’m sure I don’t look very intimidating barefoot, braless, and dressed in one of his giant black t-shirts, but I hold my ground anyway.

He stops pacing a half-foot from me and a silent stare-down ensues.

“Tell me.” My words are icy as my glare.

“You don’t need to know.”

“I’m the one they kidnapped.
I’m
the one they came after.” I step closer, until I’m practically in his face. “Pretty sure that means I deserve to know who they are.”

He hesitates a beat, eyes scanning the stubborn set of my jaw, then finally relents. “Keegan MacDonough.”

My brows go up — the name still means nothing to me.

“He’s the head of the Bunker Hill gang.”

Still not ringing any bells.

Nate sighs. “The Irish mob.”

A sound flies from my mouth. It might be a snort. “The
mob
? As in
the mafia
?”

He nods tightly.

“As in
let’s give him some cement shoes and make him swim with the fishes
?” My nose wrinkles. “
That
Irish mob?”

“This isn’t a joke.” His voice is flat. “O’Pry and Fitzpatrick are just underlings, they don’t have any real power. Mac, on the other hand… He’s the real deal. Controls half of Charlestown. Runs drugs, guns, counterfeit cash. Keeps a few dirty cops in his pocket, for insurance. The MacDonough family has held those streets since the 1970s, when the Feds cleaned up shop and tossed the former bosses in the big house. Mac was only too happy to quietly pick up the reins and fill the void they left behind.”

“Who the heck are O’Pry and Flannery?” I ask, trying like hell to keep up. It’s hard, considering I’ve been transplanted into a Matt Damon movie overnight, but I’m doing my best.

“Cormack O’Pry — alias
Cormack O’Dair
. And Petey Fitzpatrick — also known as
Padraic Flannery
.” Nate’s eyes are unwavering on mine. “They saw an opportunity with you and they took it. Probably hoped it would get them in Mac’s good graces if they could make your father squirm.”

“But I still don’t understand
why
.” I shake my head, grab my water glass, and take a big sip. “What does this have to do with the West Waterfront? Why would they target me? My dad? Seems extreme, just for a little ransom money.”

“Twenty million isn’t chump change.”

“Twenty million?” I repeat dumbly, eyes wide. “For me?”

Nate nods.

I laugh — I can’t help it. “If only they knew my father doesn’t give a shit about me.” A snort pops out.
Attractive
. “Man doesn’t even answer my damn phone calls, he sure as shit wouldn’t pay a royal fortune to get me back.” 

Something dangerous flashes in Nate’s eyes when he hears that.

“He would’ve paid.”

I roll my eyes. “Right.”

“You should really call him. He needs to know what’s happening—”

“Do you have something stronger than this?” I lift my water glass. “If we’re going to discuss my father, I really need some liquid courage.”

“West—”

“
Knox
,” I mock, cutting off his protest. “Bourbon. Now. I know you have a bottle lurking in one of these cabinets.”

He shakes his head, not liking it, but follows my command. A second later, he’s got a bottle of Buffalo Trace in one hand, two short glass tumblers in the other. When I reach for the whiskey, he shoots me a look and walks to the other side of the island, out of reach.

I watch, mystified, as he moves from fridge to cabinet to counter, pulling out all the ingredients for my favorite drink. With the expert efficiency of one of Boston’s best bartenders, he drops a sugar cube into the bottom of each glass, then adds a splash of bitters and a dash of water. There’s the muddled sound of stirring, the clink of ice cubes, the snap of a bottle cap twisting.

Less than a minute later he sets a perfect Old Fashioned in front of me — all that’s missing is a cocktail cherry and an orange slice. (Which just so happen to be the only fruits I consume on a regular basis.)

He leans one hip against the island, watching me carefully.

“You made me an Old Fashioned.” I say, eyes moving from his face to the glass.

He nods and takes a sip. I watch him swallow, fascinated by the simple action of his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“It’s my favorite drink.”

He nods again. “I know.” 

He knows?

My mouth opens, closes, opens again. I can’t find any words, so I just grab my glass and take a swig.

Damn, that’s good. There is nothing sexier than a man who knows how to mix a good drink…

Pushing that perilous thought to the far reaches of my brain, I move away from the kitchen and head for the couch. I’m too tired to stand upright any longer. Balancing my drink precariously, I fold my limbs into a tight pretzel and settle on the corner cushion, like I’d do when I was home sick with the flu in elementary school. Nate watches me intently, never moving from his place by the barstools.

“What?” I ask, feeling his eyes on me.

He shakes his head.

“You’re staring.” I take a breath. “It’s creepy.”

It’s not remotely creepy. It’s…
intense
.

His eyes don’t shift. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding like he’s not sorry at all.

“You know, this is going to take forever if you refuse to answer a single one of my questions and only speak in monosyllabic sentences,” I point out. “And then I’ll be here in your lair for a long ass time, being too loud and touching all your things. Which I’m sure is not what you want. In fact, it’s probably the exact
opposite
of what you want.”

His eyes crinkle. “My lair?”

I gesture at the space around us.

“We’re in Seaport, not Middle Earth.”

I snort. “Well, maybe I’d know that if you’d spoken more than five words since I woke up here.”

“West, I’ve been a bit busy trying to figure out how to save your ass.” His voice is getting exasperated. “What do you want from me?”

Oh, isn’t that the question of the decade…

“I want a conversation. Not this… this…
thing
we’ve been doing for the past ten years.”

His eyes narrow. “And what would that be?”

“Ignoring each other’s existence except when absolutely mandatory. Hating each other the rest of the time.”

“I haven’t been ignoring you.” His forehead furrows. “And I don’t hate you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He strides away from the counter and walks to the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes never leave mine. “Why would you think I hate you?”

“Um… maybe because you haven’t spoken to me in years, with the exception of the last month? And even then, most of the time it’s less
speaking
than
yelling
.”

“That’s not true.”

I make an incredulous noise.

He steps closer. “I talked to you at the launch party three years ago on Parker’s boat.”

“You told me I should wear a life preserver if I was going up on deck. One of the big, puffy orange ones. Over a vintage Chanel mini-dress, no less.”

His eyes crinkle up — not in amusement, but something else. I’ve never seen those chocolate eyes look
warm
before, but they are when he mutters, “I remember that dress.”

What?!

Forcing myself to breathe, I carry on. “Well… it wasn’t exactly a conversation between pals.”

“There have been other times.” He steps closer. “The WestTech Christmas party two years ago. You were wearing those ridiculous heels with the straps that wrapped all the way up your calves.”

WHAT?!

“You asked me if I was planning to carry a taser when I moved off campus after graduation.” I shake my head, trying not to have a heart attack. “Not exactly small talk.”

I think his lips twitch. “Maybe I’m not good at small talk.”

“Then talk about something big.”

“How big are we talking?” he says, voice low and amused. “‘Cause it’s
big
. Legendary, even.”

My mouth threatens to drop open. “I can’t tell if you’re being funny right now or just trying to make me uncomfortable.”

He takes another step toward me. “Is it working?”

Yes
.

“No,” I snap.

His lips
definitely
twitch, this time. “West, anyone ever tell you you’re a shit liar?”

“Knox, anyone ever tell you you’re an arrogant bastard?” I smile sweetly.

He stands there for a while, almost smiling at me with those warm eyes and upturned mouth, and it’s all I can do not to hurl my body from the couch and kiss him.

“You feel better, now?” he asks after a while.

I nod. “A little, actually.”

“Good, ‘cause we still need to talk about shit.”

A deep sigh slips from my mouth. “Fine. Fire away.”

My doctor told me eliminating my main source

of stress would lower my blood pressure.

I told him homicide isn’t legal yet.

Nathaniel Knox, describing the downsides

of removing Phoebe from his life.

The sensation of arms lifting me from the couch stirs me back into consciousness.

“Nyuuggghh,” I grunt. Adorable as always.

I feel a chuckle move through the chest I’m cradled against. “Shhh. Go back to sleep.”

My eyes open because, of all the times I could start listening to Nate’s orders, it’s not going to be
this
one, when he’s got his arms wrapped around me. There’s a tanned slice of skin two millimeters from my eyeballs.
Hello there, source of all my nighttime fantasies…

“What are you doing?” I whisper to his throat.

“Putting you in my bed,” he answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I blink hard.

The last thing I remember is telling Nate about the kidnapping. He wanted to know everything — the exact wording Cormack used, minute details about the landscape, the angle of my view of the Tobin bridge, the color of the barstool cushions scattered around the basement. Things I never would’ve imagined were important.

By the time I’d drained my Old Fashioned, my eyes were drooping closed and my brain felt limp in my skull from being so thoroughly picked apart. I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch, mid-interrogation.

“Is the cross-examination over, prosecutor?” I ask sleepily.

He chuckles again — a silent vibration that makes my body hum against his. “For now.”

I stare at his neck as he carries me, thinking this is the closest I’ve ever been to him.

It’s still not close enough. Not remotely.

His body bends as he sets me down on his bed. His hands are gentle — what a strange thing, Nate being
gentle
— as they pull the black duvet up over me. It’s still dark, but his eyes find mine.

“What time is it?” I ask.

He glances at his watch. “Almost five. Sun will be up soon.”

“I’m never going to be able to sleep, now.”

“Try,” he commands softly, tucking the blankets tighter around me.

Bossy, bossy, bossy.

Right now, I kind of like it.

His hands pull back. “You need anything before I go?”

I sit up, sending the blankets tumbling. Panic sluices through me. “Go?”

Very abruptly, I realize that I don’t want to be alone in the dark again. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever.

His eyes soften as they read the fear in my expression. “To the couch,” he clarifies gently. “I’m not leaving you, West. I promise.”

Something expands in my chest, when he says that with those dark eyes locked on mine. So steady. So sure. So safe.

I’m not leaving you
.

Suddenly I can’t stop myself. I don’t
want
to stop myself. I fling my body forward and wrap my arms around his neck. The impact is hard – he jolts two inches back when we collide. I feel him freeze, uncertainty filling his every atom, but I don’t care.

My face finds that spot in the crook of his neck where muscle bunches and veins cord tautly, nestling in so we’re skin on skin. My arms twine around his back until I’m plastered so tight against him, I’m not sure where he ends and I begin. He doesn’t return my embrace, so I hug him hard enough for us both.

“West—” he starts.

“Please,” I whisper, voice breaking on the word. “Don’t push me away, Nate. Not right now.” My throat is constricted by the lump of emotion gathering there. “I just…. I need a minute of this — of
you
— so I know everything’s going to be okay. Then… I promise I’ll let go.” 

Something shifts in the air around us, when I say that. I can’t see it, but I sense it with every single part of my being. He stops fighting — me, himself, those demons that lurk in the back of his eyes. And then, before I can process it, his arms come up around me and he’s hugging me back.

So tight my ribs ache. So hard I think he’ll never let me go.

My tears drip against his skin and his head ducks to rest on my shoulder. It’s not about sex or lust or even love. It’s pure comfort between two people who’ve always walked the line of misery. Who’ve always carried the burden of their broken pieces in total solitude.

The shattered fragments of my heart find solace against the jagged edges of his soul. We breathe each other in and exhale out everything that makes us damaged, consoling each other in the dark in a way we haven’t since we were kids.

I can’t say who moves first. I can’t define the exact moment that this stolen embrace changes from one of simple comfort to something entirely different. I can’t tell you if it’s my hands, sliding into the curling hair at the nape of his neck… or his lips, brushing the skin where my shoulder meets my neck. I can’t tell you if the thrumming in my body, the heat between my legs, or the fire in my heart are responsible for the way I shift against him, until I feel the length of him hard against my stomach.

All I can tell you is that when that shift happens — when lips hit skin and our bodies align like two lost puzzle pieces — the electricity that always crackles through him like a live wire jumps over to me.

One bolt of lightning. A single spark.

We combust into flames.

My mouth finds his, or maybe his finds mine. It doesn’t matter. As soon as they brush, we’re both lost. His tongue spears into my mouth without hesitation and then he’s kissing me. I’ve never been kissed like this before — like I’m being claimed, branded, marked as his. Every fumbling high-school boy and drunken college crush falls away in the wake of Nate’s kiss. Teeth, tongues, hands, lips. We devour each other.

I taste bourbon and blood as my lip cracks open again beneath his onslaught. A growl rattles from deep in his chest as he tastes it, but he doesn’t stop. I wouldn’t let him if he tried.

My hands work into his hair and pull him closer, deepening the kiss. His stubble scrapes my cheeks as our mouths consume each other — a decade of lust pouring out in a torrent, fueling the fire. His hands roam my back, my ass, my sides. They slip up under my borrowed t-shirt, seeking skin and heat. I moan at the sensation of his callused hands against me, writhing to get closer.

Not close enough. Never close enough.

We are the most treacherous of fault-lines, long overdue for a quake. The pressure has built and built and built between our opposing sides for years, until finally, the very earth cracks open beneath us.

We are a natural disaster.

We are a perfect storm.

We will ruin lives and level cities and destroy everything in our wake.

And none of it matters. Not now. Not here, in his arms. 

He kisses me deeper, like he can’t get enough, his hands finding the sides of my face, holding me there without tenderness. Winding into my hair, tugging until my head falls back, totally at his mercy. He’s playing rough.

I can play rough, too.

I slide my hands down his back, around his hips, up his thighs. When I find the length of him, he’s hard as steel encased beneath the denim of his jeans. I stroke my fingers against the ridges there, reeling when I hear a needy sound rattle from his throat.

I did that. One brush of my fingers did that.

It’s a rush — knowing he’s just as affected by me as I am by him. I do it again, harder this time, feeling bold with his hands in my hair and his tongue in my mouth. He breaks away, panting, his forehead resting on mine.

“Fuck.” The sheer need in his voice is barely leashed. “We shouldn’t—”

I meet his eyes as my hand grips him. His gaze is stormy, filled with guilt and lust and a million other emotions.

“Nate,” I whisper, hand running the length of him again. Except for the ragged inhales moving his chest, he’s entirely still. “Make love to me. Please.”

He groans. His forehead hits mine again, and I feel his breaths against my swollen mouth. I press my lips to his in a lingering kiss.

“You’re going to kill me.” His voice is tight.

“I’ll make sure you die happy,” I whisper.

That’s all it takes.

His control snaps like a twig beneath the weight of our desire. His mouth hits mine, his hands find the bottom of my t-shirt, and then it’s simply gone, tossed across the room somewhere, and I’m practically naked in his hands. His palms find my breasts, rough like sandpaper on my skin, and I almost come apart at the sensation.

“So responsive,” he mutters against the skin of my collarbone. When his face drops lower, I nearly come up off the bed. “Like a live wire in my hands.”

My head falls back.

I feel incredible. Every part of my body feels alive, burning up with need for him. I can’t believe, after so many years of waiting and dreaming of this moment, it’s finally happening. I want to savor it, embed it in my memories so I never forget what the scratch of his stubble against my cheek feels like, or the hot breath of his sighs against my neck, or the way he touches me, like I’m glass and he’s fire, forging me into something beautiful.

His hands slip lower, to trace the band of the borrowed boxers rolled over my hips. I push up against him, so my breasts drag against his chest, and then his hand is there, against me, exploring uncharted territory with deft fingers.

“Fuck,” he groans, feeling the heat between my legs. He’s cursing but somehow, it sounds almost like a prayer on his lips. “So ready for me.”

I’m totally lost in the feeling of him. His fingers are moving faster and faster, and I feel something start to build inside me, something powerful and unfamiliar, and all I can do is cling to his shoulders as it overtakes me. I’m being swept up in a tidal wave of need. His lips find mine again and the wave starts to peak and then—

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

Someone is pounding on the door. In fact, judging by the number of strikes, it sounds like
several
someones.

“Goddammit,” Nate curses, pulling his hand out of my boxers.

“No!” I wail, feeling the wave recede.

So close.

“Open up, Knox! I want to see my goddamned best friend! And then smack the hell out of her for scaring me to death!”

Lila.

“We know she’s in there! You said we had to wait until morning to see her. Look outside — the sun’s coming up!”

Gemma.

“Sunshine, calm down. He’s not holding her hostage. They’re probably sleeping.”

Chase.

There’s a brief pause during which I imagine she weighs his words, then, “Open up!”

Bang, bang, bang.

Chase’s sigh is so loud, I can hear it through the door.

I laugh lightly and look up at Nate, surprised to find he’s already watching me. His eyes move over my face like he’s memorizing its every feature.

“What?” I ask, patting down my bangs. “Do I have sex hair?”

His lips twitch. “No.”

“OPEN UP!” Gemma yells. “Don’t make me break open this door.”

“Sunshine, have you been working out?” Chase’s voice is amused. “Last I checked, you couldn’t even break open the paint cans to redecorate the living room.”

“Whose side are you on?” Gemma hisses.

“Yours.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Always.”

She pauses. “Knox! Don’t make Lila break down this door!”

Lila giggles.

I snort. When I meet Nate’s eyes, I see they’ve gone crinkly again.

“Do we have to let them in?” I ask.

“You really think they’re going to give up?” He winces as the pounding continues.

I sigh. “Where’s my shirt?”

***

A few hours later Gemma, Chase, and Lila have been filled in on everything that happened to me. Lila feels horrible for introducing me to Cormack — she’s apologized approximately seventy billion times since she got to Nate’s, despite my assurances that she’s just as much a victim as I was. If she ever sees Padraic — or,
Petey
— again, he’s in for a serious ass-whooping.

“I’m the worst friend ever,” she announces, collapsing back against the cushion beside me. “It’s official.”

“You took care of Boo while I was gone.” I bump her shoulder with mine. “That means you’re not the worst friend. Maybe in the top ten, but not the absolute
worst
.”

“Not funny,” she grumbles. “Would this be a bad time to mention we ate all the Cheez-ITs in your pantry?”

I gasp in faux outrage.

“You didn’t have cupcakes,” Gemma says unapologetically from my other side. “It was the only option.”

Apparently, they’d used my brownstone as a gathering place in the hours after I disappeared — which explains why Nate was with Lila when I called from the burner phone.