Taking Mine (29 page)

I once again shake my head. “No, sir. I don’t.”

He pats me on the shoulder, grimacing at my noncompliance. He stands, putting his back to me when I feel cold metal press to my temple. I don’t need to look to know what it is. My heart stops.

“No!” Kip’s voice overlaps with Justin’s.

“No, wait. I did it. It was me.” It’s rushed and panicked, but it puts everyone on hold.

“You?”

Justin pushes up from his knees, standing much more calmly than his eyes give him credit for. “Yes, it was me.”

Taylor follows. “You stupid son of a bitch. You fucked everything up.”

“Sit down!” The third man in the room has been silent all this time, but his voice is scary enough to knock Taylor back down to his knees.

“Thank you,” Mr. Monroe says, standing in front of Justin. “I figured it was you or the kid.”

Justin remains steady. “Let Lilly go and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“How do I know you know anything?”

“Because I know Lance is your spy,” he says, and even I can see that it surprises him that Justin would know that.

He thinks it over, ordering Lance to step back, and I immediately cry in relief. Only to cry for the complete opposite reason when he pulls a gun out from under suit jacket and aims it at Justin’s face.

WHEN I LOOK BACK
at this moment, I’ll probably have more clarity. I’ll be able to remember without the rush of endorphins and adrenaline coursing through my body, and without the amount of blood fogging my system.

But right now, all I know is fear.

All I hear is shouting.

All I see is Justin.

I see the moment it happens. Justin pulls a maneuver that I’ve only ever seen in movies, successfully turning Mr. Monroe's own gun back on him, flipping the tables in an instant.

All the while, swarms and swarms of men dressed head to toe in black enter the building. Multitudes of men, in full tactical gear, rush in from the outside. Both sides of the shop open quicker than magic. They yell orders to one another and I have no idea how they can tell who’s talking to who. Others are directing Taylor, Kip, and Ethan onto the ground, face down with hands behind their heads.

But my eyes stay trained on Justin as he pins Mr. Monroe down, placing his knee into his back and slapping a pair of cuffs around his wrists. The entire time he’s going through the process, reading off the Miranda Rights by memory, he’s watching me. His eyes never leave mine as his lips move to the words he’s probably recited so many times that the act has become second nature to him.

Because…

Because Justin is a cop.

I RUN
.
MY FIGHT OR FLIGHT
instinct kicks in and I fly. I know it’s pointless. There are too many and I’m too slow. I’m aware this doesn’t end well. But I feel like I need to escape. I need to process. Just a few more seconds of freedom before reality sets in.

I hear footsteps following me as I run down the hallway, into the break room, and out of the employee entrance. Tiny pieces of gravel pull my feet out from under me, and I catch myself with my hands, barely losing momentum. A nondescript SUV is parked blocking the exit, so I run toward the fence dividing the alley from the opposite block. I’m surprised by my own strength when I heave the top part of my body over the fence. I struggle to find grip with my shoes and am forced to rely on upper body strength when I feel a hand wrap around my ankle.

I’m pulled off the fence by my feet, and I land face-first, literally. The entire left side of my face throbs against the concrete. Without thinking, I reach to wipe the gravel digging into my eye and am immediately rewarded with a strong yank pinning my arm behind me. I yell as I hear an audible pop in my shoulder. The cop angrily says something about resisting that I don’t catch, and he runs his hands over my body and closer to my female anatomy than I’d ever feel comfortable with. The next thing I know, I’m standing as he places me on my feet.

I watch as Taylor is escorted out of the back of Toby’s, cuffed and looking like he wants to commit murder against anyone within reaching distance. He’s placed against the hood of the vehicle blocking the exit and patted down. Kaley is standing against her car, tears running down her face as an officer questions her. Her eyes lock on mine and widen. I tear my gaze away.

Several SUVs take up the street, blocking oncoming traffic in both directions. People exit their vehicles, standing on the outskirts of the barricade, trying to get a look at what’s going on. Kip is being pushed up against a nearby vehicle, his head whipping back and forth, looking for me presumably. His eyes light up when he sees me, but they immediately dim. It’s not until I recognize his concern that I feel the blood running down my face.

I mouth to him that I'm okay.

I’m deposited into my own vehicle, my rights are read, and the slam of the door rocks the vehicle. There’s not a specific emotion I can pinpoint, but it's too much and I cry. I keep my eyes trained, waiting for a glimpse of Justin. The look on his face when he put Mr. Monroe down keeps playing on a feedback loop. As desperately as I try, I can’t convince myself that what I saw is true. There has to be some kind of explanation. But even as I fail to find one, I know what I saw.

The SWAT team has begun dismantling their uniforms. Deputies with bulletproof vests that read DEA across the back congregate together, some smiling at a job well done. Ethan and the third man to Mr. Monroe’s entourage exit the building.

It's then when Justin finally makes his appearance. He steps out, holding the front door open for the next two people to walk through. Mr. Monroe is cuffed, escorted by Lance, who says something to Justin on the way by. My gaze jumps to Kaley, and I see the shock on her face as well. Lance departs to deposit a very solemn-looking John Monroe into the backseat of an SUV.

Justin walks to a man dressed in slacks and a button-down, clearly the boss with a clipboard in his hand. They talk for a few moments, heads bowed together. The other deputies occasionally glance in their direction but don’t approach. My heart skips a beat when they both look up toward my car. I know he can’t see me, the window tint too strong, but I hurriedly wipe away my tears with the sleeve of my shoulder.

He takes a step my way, but the man puts a hand on his chest, stopping his pursuit. Justin’s face is tense as he allows his coworker to hold him back. It looks like it takes a moment for Justin to concede, but eventually he nods, letting his guard down. The man pats him on the back and says something as he walks away. Justin stands, hands on his hips, looking at my window. I pull back, slinking in my seat. I know there’s no way he can see me, but I feel like there’s a direct line from his eyes to mine, and it makes me shiver. He laces his hands behind his neck and turns around and walks away.

THE THING ABOUT SITTING
in a holding cell alone is that I have plenty of time to think. Then cry. And then think some more.

I’ve been alone for hours. I’m not quite sure how long, considering I’ve had nothing but my own thoughts to keep me entertained, and the better half of it I spent crying. Feeling sorry for myself is up there, along with Kip, and Dan and his family. Once I get tired of crying, I’m angry. So angry that I feel like at any moment I’ll spontaneously combust with all the fire roaring inside me. I’m very, very angry.

And I’ve had nothing but time to add fuel to the fire.

By the time a female police officer opens my cell and tells me we’re moving, I don’t ask questions. She re-cuffs my hands in front of me, and we trek down an abnormally long hallway. She doesn’t speak as we buzz through a series of doors, just simply directs me where to go. We’re at the last door when I see him standing on the other side. He’s wearing the same clothes he was at Toby’s, except now a badge hangs from around his neck.

The door opens and we walk through. My heart grows in size and rhythm the closer I get to him. And I realize I hate him. It’s a new development to me. I can’t recall a single person that I’ve felt this much admonishment to, not even my mom. Every ounce of me feels like it’s been lit on fire and it’s seeping from my pores. This person, this man that I
trusted,
is a liar.

A lying bastard.

I clench my teeth, trying to gain some semblance of control. His eyes wander to my swollen cheek. The entire left side of my face feels like it went through a meat grinder, so I’m sure it looks like hell.

His face contorts. “What happened?” he says, angry. At what, I’m not sure.

He lifts his hand to touch my cheek and I whip my face away from his touch. It’s as if I stung him, pain lashing his face, and he doesn’t try to hide it. I shake my head at my own stupidity. I’m seeing what I want to see, because despite it all, I still want to believe he cares. The officer un-cuffs me, and right as my wrists are free, I plant my feet like he taught me and I pull my arm back. My knuckles hit my target. He stumbles back, cupping his nose, checking for blood.

That’s right, I smirk at him.
I want to piss you off.

I’m immediately bombarded by officers that seem to emerge from nowhere. My arms are brought behind my back, and I feel the familiar slap of cuffs.

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Justin holds a hand up to stop them.

It’s not okay, though. How can he say that anything is even remotely okay?
Nothing
is okay. He’s telling everyone that it’s okay with the calmest expression on his face, and it’s like looking at the face of the devil. Because only the devil can lie like he can.

I spit in his face.

It finally elicits a response, and his face is murderous as he wipes the spit from his eye. His eyes hold mine as he steps into me. “Stop it. They’re going to put you in a straitjacket and muzzle you. Do you want that?”

With his face so close to mine, I can’t stop myself from glancing at his lips. A memory of them placed on mine from the night before filters through my mind. The way they opened to me, tasted me, wanted me.

And I think I hate myself a little bit, too.

Despite everything, I wish we could go back twelve hours and everything could be as they were. None of this would have happened and I would still be blissfully ignorant. But we can’t. I snap my eyes away from him, ashamed.

He straightens back up. “She’s good. I’ll take her from here.”

I yank away from his touch when he grabs my elbow. He lets out an agitated breath through his nose but lets me go. We don’t speak as he leads me into a small room, much like my cell, with a table and two metal chairs against the wall.

“Sit.”

I remain standing. I hear him leave and shut the door when I refuse to acknowledge him. I pace, my hands still cuffed behind me. My anger is now a dull simmer beneath the surface, and something closer, something scarier threatens to take its place. I’m antsy as I wait. I’m beginning to think I’ll be left in this room as long as they left me in the other when a man walks. It’s the man with the clipboard. Justin follows.

“Miss Lilly Foster,” he greets me. “Timothy Fisher, Assistant Director in charge of the Drug Enforcement Administration of the field division, but you can call me Tim. You already know Justin. He’s the special agent on your case. Please, take a seat.”