Torture (Siren Book 2) (4 page)

The others keep quiet.

“Are you sure?”

I guess I'm going to have to give them another nudge then. “That one—Robin Velasquez. I worked with him. He died. Workplace accident.”

Denise won't meet my eye at that.

“Yeah—yeah. I signed a check for his widow, Sara.”
Calder's already scanning the rest of the list, considering it open and shut.

Why the fuck is he lying like this
? “He wasn't married, Calder. Are you thinking of the right person?”

“I—I don't know. Maybe not.” Calder's not even looking at me.
Fuck
, I hate social climbers. But I'm obviously the one here whose loyalty he least cares for, now that he has the chance to learn a good clip more about our companions' work. Obviously, keeping the peace with them is more important. “It's probably just a mind-game.”

I shrug, ignoring how much that hurts. I
know
what he is. Why do I expect him to have a heart, over and over again? Experience proved the opposite
long
ago.

I meander away from them, and sit in my favorite spot, well out of the way. Their voices echo around me, as they bicker over which sandwich is most appetizing to who, and how long they should try to make them last. Eat a few bites as needed, through the day? Wolf it all down now, and be full for an hour?

It doesn't matter. I can't involve myself fighting for scraps with those hyenas, even for appearances. If I have to open my mouth, my shell's gonna break.

Calder's warm weight settles next to me, and he presses a sandwich into my hands. “Egg salad. Only one without any of the smoked meats.” He's lying; there was tuna in there, too. But he's smooth about it, obviously wanting the sweetness of the gesture to be what I notice. And his gambit works.

It's a considerate attention to detail, one that brings tears to my eyes despite me. It's another piece of an already confusing picture.

He swipes my hair behind my ear as I unwrap my meal, and leans close to me. If one of them passes, it just looks like flirtation, but—“Something's wrong.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, its vibrations tickling my cheek and ear.

“Mmm?” I mumble, my mouth full of eggy goodness.

“
I signed those checks.
There's two others that I
saw
my mom sign, too. The amount of money, it stuck out in my head, since I—I didn't know what it was for. The money never made it to them, and in at least the one case, was addressed fraudulently. I don't know who the hell did it, who the hell helped it happen, but it's
fucked up
to be learning this shit now, when I can't do anything about it.”

Figures. It's all about the money. How
dare
someone else cheat him out of his money.

“I'm
trapped
here, letting them get away with this shit. I can't
do
anything. And at least the one guy ended up homeless, you said.”

I nod, chewing quietly. At least he's paying lip service to the full harms.

“That's on me—and her. We should've known something smelled off. It's not
right
. I'm in here wasting away, when I
should
be out there, doing the right thing, and undoing the damage that happened because of that lie.”

I can't do anything but bite my lip and nod again. He's obviously playing me, trying to reassure me he hears me, while not having to commit to any action addressing the wrongs. But thank fuck he cares about my
feelings
, anyways. I have to cling to my animosity, imagining driving my fist into his face, over and over again, until the handsomeness is gone from his manipulations. It's made somewhat easier because the harsh lighting in the room erases the reddish tones to his hair, and emphasizes the bags under his eyes. Despite that, I can hardly take my eyes off him.

“What if the rest of the list is like that? No one seems to know the rest, but it's a big town, and a big company. What if I'm
supposed
to know the rest of them, too? What if they're
all
people I've failed?”

He looks so genuinely wounded that my insides warm, and I give him an honest smile. “I don't know what to tell you. I just work security on the gangway.”

That's the wrong answer. His brows snap together; he must have remembered something that catches me in that lie. I hurry to backpedal, and address it. “Okay—you got me. I just—can you not tell those two I know my way around a toolchest?”

He raises his eyebrows, and I push my sandwich into his hands so I can move, to use his own tactic against him. I lean close, almost pressing myself against him, and bring my mouth close to his ear. His earlobes tickle my lips. “Do you really think Allen wouldn't lash out, at that? At there
conveniently
being someone who knew how to build shit being trapped with him, in this handcrafted hellhole?”

He jerks away from me to meet my eyes, and his concern's surprisingly genuine. It's dangerous, phrasing it this way, connecting that many dots for him, but he'll trust it if it comes from me, given his soft spot for damsels in distress, or really, anyone who needs his guidance.

He leans his head against the wall, and I curl forward to continue speaking in that same low voice. “Allen... he's got this angry energy that scares me. This time, he put himself forward to prove that you aren't more man than him, the automatic pack alpha. Next time, what if he's shoving
me
forward, because I'm the one who's qualified on paper to think of a way to fix it or get us out? I'm
not
a gorramn rocket scientist or miracle worker...”

I don't know if I'm making any sense to him, but I let the words come faster, as though I'm sincerely afraid. “I—I don't want to die here, and when I look at him, I see my death.” I draw a breath in, and it hitches, sounding rather like a sob. “I don't want him to use me that way.”

Calder pulls back, and stares at me, trying to figure out if I'm lying, or trying to fuck him over. He pulls the wrapping back over the sandwich so he can set it aside, and draws me close, pressing his lips into my hair. His voice barely audible, he whispers, “Your secret's safe with me.”

He pulls back, his eyes lingering on my lips as though he's reminding himself not to kiss me again. I know that some degree of relief and gratitude is expected—and present already, even—but in the absence of another way of showing it, I give it to him the way he seems to want, leaning into him until our lips touch, and his breathing catches, and his arms fold around me. His palms flatten against my back, pressing me into him closer, and it's
my
turn to catch my breath.

“No fair. I said I wanted to suck you.”

“Later, birdie. A million times later. Whenever you want.”

He kisses me, and his lips still taste of my arousal.

Encircled in his arms, his touch feels like a prison, one I'll never escape.

Chapter Five

Calder

I'm not gonna make the same mistake I did last time, even with Milla initiating the kiss. Her lips are slightly cracked from our treatment, but just the normalcy of feeling them against mine sooths some of the manic energy that's kept me going, focusing on the questions around me. For the first time since Alex died, I can quiet my thoughts, drown them in her aroused breathing.

I deepen the kiss, touching my tongue to hers, exploring her mouth, relieved for the respite as much as the connection. There's something of my desperation in her lips, in the way she clutches me, awkwardly, as though she's not sure she has permission to, but has to try anyways. I pull her fully into my lap, her flank pressed against my hardening cock, and even the everyday nature of
that
is a blessing, something that I might need to cling to in the coming days, weeks,
however
long this lasts.

It's a dumb idea, adding something sexual to this. It can only end in pain. Any day now, either of us could end up like Alex. Or it could be unbearable being trapped with each other, unable to escape. Enough of my relationships have gone bad for me to know that a breakup that would otherwise be a slow agony, but one that's overall fairly nondisruptive could be a veritable earthquake in these kinds of confines.

But hell if I can stop. Hell if I can let her pull away from me. Hell if I can give up her taste.

If she stops kissing me, I have to return to the real world, bottled up with people I neither like nor trust, waiting to die.

Powerful muscles in her back flex, and I caress them, tracing them through her worn t-shirt. The raw strength in her frame makes her all the more real, makes the safety in this moment all the more compelling. I'm not clinging to something fragile or ephemeral. I'm clinging to someone who's gonna fight alongside me, wherever that leads.

I need to memorize each curve, each slope, find something real to cling to beneath her skin. Unconsciously, I pull her against me tighter, my hand gliding over her toned ass, and she stiffens, and slides off my lap. The change, the loss of her lips, of her warmth, takes several seconds to sink in.

Her eyes are wide, and her lips trembling. Just the sight of her flushed cheeks, and swollen mouth nearly overrides my restraint; I want to pull her back where she belongs, and refuse to give up what I felt touching her.

As my libido subsides, as I look at her more, I realize
why
she pulled back:
fear
. She might have sought solace from Allen with me, but she doesn't actually believe I'm any better.
Just that her body might be her only bargaining tool, because I'm
clearly
interested in it. A rotten taste lingers in the back of my throat, contrasting heavily with the remembered flavor of her lips.

Shit
.

“Sorry,” she says, lowering her eyes, shutting the vulnerability out. “I got carried away.”

“I did, too,” I add, not wanting her to feel it was one-sided, but not wanting her to think that I'm gonna push for it to happen again, against her wishes.

“We shouldn't—”

“No, we shouldn't.” Though it's not like the words will stop me from
wanting
to.

“I—I'm not—” She hesitates, thinking through what she wants to say next.

“You're not attached, but you're not really
free
, either?” I wrinkle my nose, hoping that my read on her is wrong. The only thing worse than staring at her day after day, lusting after her, is going to be knowing that each time I do is another day away from someone who cares about her, who she
wants
to be fantasizing about her.

“You could say that.”

I squeeze her hand. “That's okay.” And a moment later, insecurity hits—if she knew she wasn't up for it, why did she kiss me? Did she
really
think that her body was the cost of my silence? Would she have really gone through with it, if she did? Even the thought makes my gut clench, and adding to the bad aftertaste in my mouth. I swallow to try to clear it away. I'd rather savor the memory of her taste, and her warmth. And not lose my lunch, feeling like a total ass.

“So—that was...” I'm not sure where to start.

“Yeah.” She smiles, awkwardly, looking away, maybe to prevent me from noticing how sensual her fresh-kissed mouth's curve is. It doesn't work.

“So small talk. Back to small talk. The paper. You work with any of the—”

She sighs, and rolls her eyes, interrupting me. “Don't ask
me
. I wasn't exactly a social butterfly, and I already told you—”

Her eyes glisten with restrained tears.
Shit
, I've reminded her of her dead friend, and the disgusting plight of the other names we've talked about. The urge to hold her again hits, but we both know how that would end. I can't stay, and risk the electricity in her touch. “You—you want some space?”

She nods, mutely, so I pat her hand one more time, and stand to give her that request. I'll try talking to one of the others in a bit, if I can't think of anything else, myself. And if I can get her fragrance and her curves under my hands out of my head.

My head spins, to be so close to cutting the Gordian knot apart, but so far. Our captor gave us a
huge
clue, and no one else seems to care, aside from Milla. Even then, her interest in it largely seems subverted by her obvious pain for her acquaintances. She's too close to see the forest for the trees.

My nerves are rattled; it'll upset the others if I pace myself into exhaustion, but it's almost impossible to sit still with the smell of burned flesh in my nose again. Everything horrible and visceral I'd blocked out about the other night is back in force, and won't leave so long as that stench is there. It suffocates me all the stronger for having breathed deeply only a few minutes before, nothing but Milla's scent tickling my senses.

I see what she meant about smoked meat not being enjoyable anymore. I manage one bite of my own sandwich before I put it aside. I'll try again later, and maybe in small sections I'll make it through it. Maybe, if I ask nicely, Denise'll swap me for her tuna sandwich.

That's the worst thing about this—too much time to think, and not enough to think about, without picking apart everything around me. The more I relive every conversation, analyze every gesture or demurral, the more clear it becomes that my companions are hiding things. Even Milla. No—
especially
Milla.

Her skittishness when her work comes up... it could simply be a fear that she'll be scapegoated, but the more I think about it, the more I think it's something else. And her anger, the closeness of trauma to the surface... The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that someone did
something
to scare her. Ordinarily, I wouldn't care, wouldn't let whatever her damage is bother me, but given the breadcrumbs in that note, I can't help but wonder if I
should
have known her anyways.

My dad had a solid working relationship with some criminal elements. At least, solid in that he'd allow alterations to the ships while they were in our docks. I don't know the specifics of what was being smuggled, but my mom kept up those arrangements, if fewer and further in between—she had a better idea of what that trouble was worth, and believed the free market could bear that cost. When they wanted it done, she'd find a scheduling hole, a shift where no one was working, and they'd sneak someone in to do the work. They'd be gone before the workers got back.

But Milla's initial hostility to me, her volatility and fear... what if she saw something she shouldn't have, on shift? It wouldn't be the first time my mom had sent someone to talk to a contractor, explain that they just didn't know enough of the big picture. Until now, I'd assumed those talks were peaceful; surely I'd have
heard
about any violence. Surely she wouldn't have signed off on any violence.

But there's a first for everything, and I'm learning quickly that I wasn't keeping up with it before.

I can't ask Milla outright. If I'm wrong, that would give her a
huge
piece of leverage. Even though it seems unlikely we'll escape, I have to keep up hope, keep myself thinking of it as a 'when' not an 'if'. With that in mind,
when
we escape, when the world is normal again, it would be something she could easily use to blackmail me, or to hurt RI. It's not ammunition I should offer lightly. I need to
know
that she already knows. I need to earn her trust, and let her tell me.

It wounds me not to trust her; even in her outbursts, she's painfully genuine, and I've always had a thing for feisty women. Even if we
weren't
trapped here, I'd have been drawn to her. But being here... it puts a damper on it. The attraction becomes a liability or a security blanket, rather than something I'm happy to indulge. If I'm too invested in what she thinks of me, I won't have my wits sharp enough to seize the opening to break free from our prison, when it comes.

There's never been room to avoid her, and with the others vacillating between unfriendliness, half-truths, and a detached numbness I can't fathom, her company's become that much more vital. So long as her company doesn't include those plush lips, or her curvaceous body against mine...

It wasn't a big deal, until last night, when things got the better of me. But since I felt her lips under mine that first time, the landscape between us has shifted
drastically
. I hadn't noticed for a bit, with the strain of this morning.

I can't tell if she feels it too, but there's a charge in every little touch, not just what you'd expect from two people looking to escape the real world in each other's bodies. I won't deprive her of what comfort I can offer, and she accepts it willingly enough, but I can't fully convince myself that it means the same thing to both of us. And this is hell enough without personal drama on top of it.

At some point, trying to comfort her, trying to prevent her from splintering, it took on an edge that surprises me still. I can't even pinpoint exactly
when
she slid into my heart. Certainly a few mind-blowing kisses alone shouldn't have been enough to do it. But the cold ache at the thought of some wannabe mafioso enforcer threatening her, it's not just something I'd attribute to basic human decency, the way that the other people's stolen checks were.

Maybe it's just faking it 'til you make it. Maybe I've spent so long trying to make her feel that I have her back, that we're in this together and I care for her, that I actually tricked myself into thinking I cared for her.

I don't know what the hell is real in it. Just the sound of her voice calls my cock to attention, and her kisses still steal my breath like the first downhill on a roller coaster. Just the smell of her hair feels like home. She affects me clear through, and that makes her dangerous.

Protectiveness or no, I can't trust her, because I can't trust
myself
to trust her.

But I have to know.

I grab a bottle of water to share with her, and take it over. I don't think subtlety is my strong suit, but it's worth a try.

“Here. You haven't been eating or drinking much today. Feeling okay?”

She glances toward me, then away, and accepts the water. She takes a small sip, then replaces the cap. No answer.

“Duh. Of course you aren't. Not with that thing still there,” I mumble to myself, eyes fixed on the cage. I look to her for an invitation, but with none coming, I choose to take the lack of objection as permission.

I sit next to her, crossing my ankles, and trying to get as comfy as possible.

“What do you want, Calder?” Whatever thought I've interrupted has her in an unfriendly mood. Either that or she wants me at a distance to prevent us from “getting carried away” again. I'll have to tread carefully.

“I was thinking. I saw you a few times, you know where.”

She raises her eyebrows, and if I didn't know better, I'd say her breathing hitched.
That
got her attention. “Yeah?”

“Mm hmm. I saw you on your way in, a few times. It didn't really jump out at me at the time, but having gotten to know you since then, I've gotta say—no one can pull off the cargo pants look like you.”

She snorts in amusement, but her eyes half-close, and her head drops back against the wall. I've obviously lost her interest.

“This is gonna sound like a strange question but, were you happy working there?”

Her jaw clenches, and when she turns her chin toward me to see me when she answers, her face is guarded. “It's not a bad gig.”

“That's not what I asked.”

She takes several minutes to answer. I've given up on assuming she
will
respond
when she finally resumes speaking. “It's not the gig it was in my dad's day. And there's only so happy you can
be
knowing you missed the glory days.”

That's not the answer I expected. “Oh.”