Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel) (9 page)

FOURTEEN

Marissa

Even though I want to argue with Nash, just to ease my frustration, I don’t. He’s right. I need a drink. I might even need two.

I lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, trying to forget about the last hour or so. And the disappointment of it. I don’t look up again until I hear Nash shift into park and cut the engine. When I open my eyes and turn my head toward him, he’s watching me, his expression blank. I’d love to know what he’s thinking.

Or would I?

I decide I probably don’t. I’d say he thinks I’m a monster. And, at the moment, I feel an awful lot like he might be right.

Feeling ashamed of myself, I look away, through the windshield, to see where we are. I half expected to see Dual in front of me. I don’t really know why. That makes no sense. I’d say that’s the last place Nash would want to go to relax. But of all the other places I might’ve imagined him picking, this place is possibly even more surprising.

We’re parked in the lot of a piano bar. Before I can ask any questions, Nash speaks as if he’d read my thoughts. “My mother used to play the piano. It always relaxes me to hear it.” He gets out and comes around to my side to open the door. I’m surprised when he takes my hand. It’s such a gentlemanly gesture. And he’s no gentleman. But he sure does have a way of keeping me off balance. I’ll give him that. “Plus our fancy clothes won’t be
that
big of a deal here.” I wouldn’t have even thought of that, but I’m glad he did.

“Why the calm courtesy tonight? This isn’t like you?”

He looks at me and arches one brow. “Maybe I don’t mind pretending to be something that I’m not, either.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Pretending?”

“You’re complaining?”

“No. I’m just . . .”

“Just what? Suspicious?”

I smile. “Maybe.”

“Good.”

Nash releases my hand more quickly than I would’ve liked. I remind myself that it’s for the best. The more distance I can keep from him emotionally, the better off I’ll be.

But already a part of me is arguing that I don’t
want
to keep distance. I want to get closer, close enough to feel the heat. The problem is, close enough to feel the heat usually means close enough to get burned.

His hand at the base of my spine causes chills to erupt down my arms. Self-conscious, I want to cross my arms over my chest; I know my nipples are hard. But I resist the urge. Rather, I put my focus on enjoying the touch of his hand.

The bar is dimly lit but for the circle that spotlights the piano. The smell of expensive cigars permeates the air and creates a haze that further obscures the half-moon-shaped booths that line the walls. Nash guides me to an empty one, pushed deep into a corner.

I slide in behind the table. Rather than sitting across from me, Nash scoots in beside me, forcing me to move around to the back of the booth, almost entirely hidden from the room, but with a great view of the piano.

When I stop, so does Nash. He doesn’t look at me as he slings his arm over the back of the booth; he’s already watching the pianist work magic with his long fingers. But that’s not the case with me. I can’t concentrate on anything except Nash.

His body is plastered to mine from my knee to my shoulder, which is tucked snugly under his arm. Even above the smoke, I smell his clean, manly scent. It envelops me.

I let my eyes slide to my left. Nash fills my vision. If I were to tilt my head and lean in, I could press my lips to the pulse I see beating in his neck, just above his collar.

As if he feels my eyes on him, he reaches up with his free hand and loosens his bow tie, expertly unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. The tie lists to one side, dangling at a sexy angle. Thoughts of undressing him run through my head, making my mouth dry.

With perfect timing, the waitress comes to take our order. “Vodka rocks and a Grey Goose martini, dirty.” Again, I’m fine with what he orders. Not that it would matter. He’d probably order whatever he wanted, anyway.

I wonder to myself if he does things like that because he’s
that
thoughtless, or if it’s because he likes total control. Maybe it’s a bit of both. One thing is for sure—the thought of giving him total control, of letting him take the reins, of letting him take
me
, gives me a thrill like no other.

Nash keeps his silence and basically ignores me until the drinks come. He downs his in two large gulps and signals the waitress for another before she can even step away from the table. Reaching forward, he slides my drink closer to me and shifts in the booth until he’s slightly tilted in my direction. His body creates a barrier against the rest of the room, like I’m shielded by him.

Or being overtaken by him. Overwhelmed. Slowly consumed.

“Drink,” he says softly, drawing my eyes to his. They’re deep pools that look like the perfect place to get lost, to hide out from the rest of the world. “Tell me about it. Tell me what happened.”

I don’t need him to clarify; I know exactly what he means. He’s referring to the days I was held captive. A shiver works its way through me, as it always does when I think of it, which I try purposely
not
to do.

“Let’s talk about you first. I’m happy to give, but I want something in return.”

“If I answer your questions
first
, that’s not ‘something in return.’ That’s bribery. What is it, Marissa?” he asks softly, his dark eyes taunting me. “Don’t you trust me to satisfy you?”

“No, I don’t.”

He reaches forward to push my hair back over my shoulder, his fingertips grazing my neck. “Well, I can promise you I won’t leave you anything
but
satisfied.”

I struggle to think past his smooth words and magnetic gaze. “You know what I mean, Nash,” I say as sternly as I can manage.

I can’t
hear
so much as
feel
his sigh. He’s so close to me, his chest brushes my arm when he inhales. “What do you want to know? That I haven’t already told you, that is.”

You’ve got to be kidding! You’ve barely told me anything!

I want to know everything, everything that has led to this moment, everything that has made him the man he is today. Everything that turned a promising young boy into this hardened, bitter person. It would be cruel to dredge up memories of the day his mother was killed, though, so I spare him that in hopes that maybe one day he’ll tell me voluntarily. “Tell me about your years at sea. You did say you worked on a smuggling ship, right?”

“That’s right. What else is there? I was involved in a lot of highly illegal, extremely unethical shit. You don’t need to know anything more than that.”

I feel the sudden chill in his attitude. This is obviously a sensitive subject and he very definitely has no interest in telling me all about it. But I’m a lawyer; it’s not in me to back down from a line of questioning just because someone doesn’t want to give me answers.

“Surely there had to be some good days. Tell me about one of them.”

I don’t know why I’m so desperate to know him, to know some part of him he doesn’t want anyone to see. But I am. I know it’s dangerous, but it’s beyond me to stop.

Nash sighs again, looking toward the ceiling. He’s quiet and appears frustrated, and it seems as though he’s not going to answer me.

But he does.

Maybe eventually, too, I will learn to expect the unexpected with him.

“My first year on the ship was pure hell. I was homesick, I was heartbroken, and I despised the idea of being involved in anything criminal. But I knew I had to survive. For Dad. For Cash. I knew one day I might be able to save us all with what I’d seen. And that boat was the only way. At least for a while. Dad promised he’d send for me, and I held on to that hope for a long time. Until I learned that hate could keep me alive, too. That it could save my life.” He falls quiet for a few seconds, lost in some kind of hell I can only fathom. But then he clears his throat and visibly shakes off the darkness in favor of something pleasant. “Anyway, a few months in, they brought on a Somalian. He wanted safe passage for him and his family to America, and the Russians had agreed to sneak them onto U.S. soil in exchange for his help for two years.

“His name was Yusuf and he reminded me a lot of Dad. He was younger, but it was easy to see he’d do anything for his family, to get them to safety, even if it meant being away from them for two years. He took up with me right off the bat. He spoke pretty good English and Russian, so he taught me quite a bit of both his native Arabic and some Russian while he was with us.” Nash smiles as he remembers and talks of this Yusuf. “We played cards a lot at night. He had the shittiest poker face in the world.” His lips curve up into the closest thing I’ve seen to a genuinely tender smile. But then it’s gone. “Anyway, on one of our runs to Bajuni, the island where we made port when we had an . . . exchange, I caught him sneaking into one of the smaller boats one night. At first, he didn’t want to tell me what he was doing, but when I threatened to sound the alarm, he changed his mind.

“See, when Yusuf agreed to help the Russians, Alexandroff, our . . . captain, had promised him he could send money to his wife and see her occasionally when we were back in the area. Only they never allowed it. So he was sneaking off to see her, to take her some money so she and his daughter wouldn’t starve. I wouldn’t let him go without me, of course, so we paddled across to the Somali coast and put in at a little bay to travel to his village of Beernassi. We only got to spend a couple of hours there, but I got to meet his wife and his little girl. They got up like it wasn’t the middle of the night. His wife, Sharifa, made us something to eat, and his daughter wouldn’t let us out of her sight.” His smile is sad as he speaks of her. “Her name was Jamilla. It means ‘beautiful.’ And she was.”

He gets quiet again, so I prompt him, wanting to hear more of his story. “What happened next?”

Nash looks up at me. His eyes have gone cold, his voice even colder. “Alexandroff found us. He walked right in, put a gun to Yusuf’s head, and pulled the trigger. Killed him right in front of his family. Two of his men, two guys I hated from the second I got on board, held me, made me watch, and then beat me in the head with the butts of their guns until I passed out. I woke up on the ship two days later, stuck to my pillow in a pool of my own blood. I was gagged and tied to the bed.”

I’m speechless. And I’m heartbroken. I ache for what Nash must have felt, what he
still
must feel. And this was one of his happy memories, for God’s sake! My throat is thick with emotion and my eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Oh God, Nash. I’m so sorry.”

Why did you have to know, Marissa? Why? Why put him through this?

“Nothing good happened on that boat. Nothing. Ever. I learned a hard lesson that night. One I’ve never forgotten.”

I’m almost afraid to ask. “What’s that?”

“I learned to hate. To really hate.”

“I understand it, and I’m sure it’s natural to feel that way—for a while. But it’s not healthy to hang on to an emotion like that for long.”

“It is when the alternative is even more self-destructive. Then it’s healthy. It’s healthy to hang on to hate when letting it go could kill you.”

For one fraction of a second, the perpetually angry mask Nash wears lifts and I see the wounds behind the tough scar tissue. I see a small glimpse of the person he used to be, maybe could be again.

Without thinking, I reach up to touch his cheek with the tips of my fingers. “Maybe one day you can find something other than anger and hatred to live for,” I say softly, almost absently.

As if my touch woke him from a stupor, as if he knows he’s letting me in deeper than he’d like, Nash looks away. He reaches for his vodka, takes a long, slow sip, then sets the glass gently back onto the table. When his eyes return to mine, they’re curiously blank. There’s no hurt, no anger, no . . . nothing in them. Just a wall, an impenetrable barrier that’s been years in the making.

“You got your warm, fuzzy story. My turn. Tell me about Saturday night.”

My stomach curls up into a tight ball and my pulse picks up speed as I remember what happened after I parked the car. I was preoccupied, stewing about the breakup with “Nash.” Of course, I had no idea who I’d been dating. Or who was breaking up with me. That still blows my mind. And infuriates me sometimes. It makes me feel like an idiot if I think about it too long.

I push those thoughts aside and let my mind go forward, through the chain of events that still terrify me when I let them out of the lockbox where I’ve been keeping them.

“My mind was on the breakup. At first, it was a pretty big smack to the ego. All Na—
Cash
told me was that he was interested in someone else and that it wasn’t fair to keep seeing me. He was very vague and secretive about it, and he refused to answer any of my questions. So, I was preoccupied and wasn’t really paying attention to much of anything else when I unlocked the door.

“I set my purse on the table and went back to my bedroom to change clothes and then have a glass of wine. After I put on my pajamas, I realized I’d left my phone in the car, so I went back out to get it. It was when I came back in that I sort of snapped out of it and realized that the television was on and turned up really loud. I thought that was odd because Olivia had obviously worked a shift. I mean, she was at Dual closing up when I was there. And she never leaves the television on. She’s much too responsible to do something like that.

“Anyway, I was standing there in front of the door, wondering over that, when I saw him move toward the living room. It was like he stepped out of the shadows and was just . . . there. A silhouette. A black presence against the white, flickering light of the television. I knew instinctively that it belonged to no one who was familiar to me.

“All this happened in probably twenty or thirty seconds. It’s like he appeared right as my brain was starting to work, but that delay . . . that short delay was enough. It cost me what little advantage I might’ve had. Could’ve cost me my life, I guess.