Nauti Nights (2 page)

She wanted to hide. She wanted to hide and nurse the pain and the fear. She was terrified. Terrified of the things she knew Dawg could make her feel and terrified of the knowledge that she would do anything,

commit any act he asked of her, for just one more chance to take another hot, mind-numbing kiss from his perfect lips.

She would become no more than one of a long line of Nauti playthings, and that would destroy her. She

could never share him with another woman, and on the same coin, she could not have survived,

emotionally, being shared.

As she moved quickly along the floating dock and over the bridge that stretched to the shore, the sound of a motorcycle moving into the parking lot beyond had her heart racing with dread.

She hadn’t just destroyed her own dreams but perhaps a friendship as well. Dawg and her brother were

close friends. When the Mackay cousins weren’t busy sharing their women, Alex had invariably been in

their company until he joined the military. And even now, when he returned home on leave, he spent a lot of time with Dawg and the other Mackay cousins.

This could destroy that friendship, and Alex didn’t have many friends.

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The implications of the past night were racing through her soul with a power that had sobs tearing from

her chest. She reached the car she had borrowed at the same time her brother pulled up to the vehicle on his motorcycle.

The powerful throb of the motor eased, then went silent as Alex extended one long leg, bracing his foot on the pavement as the other propped on the foot pedal on the other side.

He wiped his hand over his face slowly before staring out at the houseboats for a long, silent moment.

This was her older brother; he had all but raised her. Her parents rarely had time for anyone but the store and themselves and whatever scheme her father had for making more money. It had left Alex with the

responsibility of raising the daughter they never seemed to know what to do with.

And now he had to face the fact that his sister had obviously just had sex with not just his best friend but a sexual legend in the county. And Dawg wasn’t even twenty-five yet.

She stood still, silent, unable to stop crying as he stared back at her silently. His gray eyes were heavy with sadness, his regal, handsome face drawn into a weary expression.

“Did you tell him no?” he finally asked her gently.

She shook her head. She hadn’t even thought to tell him no.

He turned his head, staring toward Dawg’s houseboat in resignation. She could see his anger in the tight, controlled line of his lips, in the flash of dark emotion in his eyes.

His jaw bunched with it as the lean muscles in his shoulders and arms flexed warningly.

“Did you want to tell him no?”

She shook her head again, shaking beneath the knowledge in his eyes.

She couldn’t have told Dawg no if her life had depended on it. Each touch, each kiss had been a fantasy

come to life.

He nodded slowly. “Let’s go home then. We can talk about it there. No sense in making things worse by

lingering out here long enough for anyone to see you. If you want to keep this quiet, you’re going to have to pretend it didn’t happen.” His gaze sharpened then. “Do you want to keep it quiet, Crista?”

“Yes.” She bit her trembling lips as she swiped at her tears. “Oh God, Alex. I just want to get out of here.”

“Do you have your keys?”

She dug them out of the pocket of her shorts and quickly unlocked the door before jerking it open.

“Crista.” His voice, despite its gentleness, resonated with a dark, hidden fury. “Was he alone?”

Her hand gripped the doorframe as she met his gaze. “It was just Dawg and me, Alex. I swear.” This time.

She knew if it happened again, if she dared to let it ever repeat, then it wouldn’t be just Dawg. And when that happened, Dawg would make an enemy of her brother for life.

“Let’s go home, Crista.” He breathed out roughly. “I’ll follow you.”

As they pulled from the driveway, she couldn’t help the sob that tore from her chest again or the fear that rolled through her.

She had cried last night when he touched her the first time. Because she had dreamed of it for so long.

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of her being that she hadn’t realized could be possessed. When his fingers had parted the folds between

her thighs and his expression had hardened with lust, he had wet his fingers on her juices, then brought them to his lips, his lashes lowering sensually at the taste of her.

A second later he had dipped his fingers between her thighs again and brought them to her lips. And she

hadn’t been able to deny him. She hadn’t been able to deny him a single thing in the hours they had spent touching and tasting each other.

Everything he had asked of her, she had given. God help her if he ever had her that weak again. She would never be able to deny him. Never be able to hold on to her pride or her soul. Because if he shared her, he would break her heart forever. But if he asked it of her, she knew she would never be strong enough to tell him no.

“God! You’re so fucking hot. So tight. So tight, Crista. So tight that when Rowdy and Natches get their

dicks inside you, you’ll destroy us all…” She hadn’t heard the rest of the statement; her mind had shut

down. Her soul had withered in her chest.

She had to get away from Dawg, because if she didn’t, he would own her soul. And that terrified her more than the thought of leaving her home ever had. She would never be able to defend herself. She knew his

touch now, knew his kiss, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would never love anyone as

she loved Dawg Mackay.

ONE

Somerset, Kentucky

Eight Years Later

It was a nightmare.

No, it wasn’t a nightmare, because she was pretty damned sure she was awake. And in nightmares, bullets

weren’t real. They weren’t real, and they weren’t exploding around the warehouse like hellish fireflies

destroying everything they lodged inside.

Nightmares came with a certain understanding that it was a dream, not real. This was definitely real, and if something really good didn’t happen very soon, then she was going to have holes in her body that were

not supposed to be there.

She fought to hold back her screams as bullets whizzed over her head again, popping in the wood crates

around her and sending a shower of wood chips and shattered glass from inside around her head.

This was bad. Very bad. She stared around, wide-eyed and dazed, as she scrambled around more boxes,

more crates, fighting for as much protection between her and the bullets as she could find.

Crista Jansen was certain her horoscope hadn’t said anything about bullets today. Something about dark

knights and ill-advised trips, but there had been nothing in there about bullets.

She would have remembered.

She would have changed her plans.

Oh boy, would she have changed her plans.

Scuttling behind what she hoped was a very thickly packed crate, she covered her head with her arms as

glass sprayed around her.

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Those weren’t just regular bullets. Those were fast bullets. Automatic? Uzi? Something. The kind that

spat fire as they pelleted out dozens of rounds at a time. And she knew because the red flashes of light in the otherwise dark interior of the warehouse were a pretty good clue.

A terrified squak, a cross between a squeak and a squawk, fell from her lips as chips of wood exploded

from the sides of the crate she found to hide behind.

They were serious out there. People were killing people, and she was caught in the crossfire and

wondering how the hell she was going to get out of this one.

She knew this was a bad idea.

She knew. She had felt that sick feeling in her gut the minute she stepped into the cavernous warehouse

and realized the lights didn’t work. But had she, dumb ass that she was, backed out and left? Oh, hell no, she had just pulled her penlight from her purse and trudged merrily on her way, looking for that stupid

box. She told the delivery company to deliver to her home, not here. Yet when she returned home from

work, what had she found? An official notice that her package had been dropped off at their local

distribution warehouse and why, lookie, there had been the magical key to open the damned locker it was

in.

Well, guess what? There’s no locker here, she told herself sarcastically. No locker, but plenty of bullets singing a macabre tune through the darkness.

So now, rather than collecting her belongings, she was just trying to stay alive. When did fate decide to bust Crista Jansen’s ass? For God’s sake, hadn’t she had enough bad luck in the past eight years?

This was all Dawg’s fault, she decided. Every bit of it. He lived and he breathed and because of it; fate hated her. Fate was female, right? It was probably jealous. There could be no other explanation.

This was so bad.

“Where did the fucking girl go—?” a harsh, accented voice muttered roughly.

Okay she was the only girl she knew of in this stupid place. She had only heard male orders, commands,

and screams since hell had erupted around her.

Crista turned, crawling on her hands and bare knees—she should have worn jeans instead of one of her

few good skirts—trying her best to get as far away from the mayhem and bloodshed as possible.

She knew not to come in here, she reminded herself. Remember that sick feeling? That panicked feeling?

Hadn’t she learned years ago it meant bad things? Get the hell out of Dodge type things?

She had been feeling it more and more lately. And this was just another event in a long string of very odd events. Clothes that would go missing and then turn back up in her closet, freshly washed. The feeling of being watched and strangers who thought they knew her.

Hadn’t she told her brother last week that something was wrong? And speaking of screwy brothers, where

the hell was hers? Damn it, Alex would have to disappear when she needed him most.

Military mission be damned. She didn’t need him across the world, unavailable; she needed him here,

now, getting her ass out of trouble.

And she hadn’t told him good-bye when she talked to him.

Strange that she should remember that as she wedged herself into a dark, musty corner surrounded by

crates and backed by a cement support beam.

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She hadn’t told Alex good-bye when she talked to him last week. She had just hung up on him because he

had said something totally idiotic.

Something along the lines of “Call Dawg.”

Oh yeah, right. She was going to do that.

He should have known better than to make such an insane suggestion. Where the hell had his mind gone

in the past eight years? Had he forgotten how hard it had been for her to stay in Somerset that summer?

Dawg had chased her with steady determination for months before the rest of her world had collapsed

around her. Even though it was more than obvious that he hadn’t remembered that one stolen night she

had spent in his bed, he had still chased after her with a tenacity that reminded her why they called him Dawg.

Because he never let up. He never gave up.

She flinched as a projectile tore through the side of the crate that she had hoped was thick enough to

protect her. She stared at the hole it made coming out mere inches from her upraised knees and gagged.

It was nearly the size of her fist.

“Get down!”

She heard the male voice screaming from a distance as another bullet ricocheted against the cement beam, inches above her head.

She went down. All the way down. And fought to get through the small crack between the support beam

and the heavy crate, wondering how the hell a bullet could penetrate it when she couldn’t even move it.

Clawing desperately at the side of the crate, she pressed, pushed, wedging herself into the minute amount of space and almost—almost managing to escape.

She screamed, terror racing through her, freezing her blood to ice as hard fingers grabbed her hair and

pulled her back, jerking her back by the thick, dark strands and sending agonizing pain racing through her neck.

Her hands reached back, her nails clawing at the wrist behind her, fighting, struggling as she was dragged from the only means of escape in sight.

“Stupid whore! Where’s my fucking money? I teach you to betray me, puta!”

She was jerked around, staring back in horror at the dark eyes and pitted face of what she was certain had to be a demon.

Stringy black hair fell over his narrow brow, his flat cheekbones were ruddy with rage, his dark brown

eyes lit almost red with fury. And he had a gun.

Crista watched in slow motion. She had heard that expression, events passing in slow motion, and hadn’t

believed it until now.

Now she was watching it. Tearless. Breathless. Watching in slow motion as his arm raised. One hand

pushed her against the cement support, the other was coming up. Up.

But the shot came too soon.

One minute she was watching that black weapon level up to her, the next a shower of red exploded around

her as her hands flew to her face and a scream tore from her as his body jerked forward, then fell.