Trouble in Tampa (8 page)

“And when I didn’t say out loud that you’re a brainless, dickless asshole, I meant that too.” I yanked against his hold, but he was strong and determined and drunk—the trifecta every woman learned to steer clear of if she made it through puberty.

“You women and your mouths. If you’d just figure out that hole was meant for the same purpose the other two were created for, there’d be no need for this.”

My first thought was to thank god I’d covered the phone’s speaker so Henry didn’t hear that, but that was soon followed by rage. That kind of human being didn’t deserve the oxygen he used.

“No need for what?” I seethed, stepping into him. By god, I wouldn’t back away from him.

Shrugging, Rob answered, “For this.” He reached his free arm back and brought it around until his fist connected with my jaw.

I’d been hit before. A bunch of times growing up with a mouth that had gotten me into trouble on the playground with the other girls, and one time from a piece-of-shit boyfriend in high school. I knew how to take a hit, but
that
one . . . that hit leveled me.

The air rushed out of my lungs when I collided with the floor. The phone and my purse flew across the hall. I was aware of Rob standing over me chuckling, and that my ears were buzzing and my jaw was throbbing, but the only thing I focused on was the sound of Henry’s voice through the phone. It had landed close to my head, and he sounded as worried as I should have been. He kept repeating my name like a mantra, and it was calming. Comforting even.

Once I felt as though my lungs weren’t two deflated balloons, I twisted onto my back so I could pick up where I’d left off in glaring at Rob. The son of a bitch had hit me hard. He was going down. “Is that all you’ve got? So much for being a pinnacle of a man like you think you are.”

The first thing that should have warned me things weren’t going to end well for me was when he slowly rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Anyone rolling up their sleeves with that maniacal of a smile was a sure sign no good was to come. The second sign? He undid his belt and pulled it from his pants as though he was preparing to use it as a weapon.

I scanned the hall for my purse, but it had gone in pretty much the opposite direction my body had. If I could unbuckle a strap and get off one of my heels, I could use that as a weapon. Then I saw the plastic bag sitting beside the door next to me. Where a couple of bottles and a pair of nail clippers sat. Nail clippers with a close-enough-to-a-knife file. If I could get to those, I could do a little damage.

As soon as I started to crawl toward the bag, I felt the first lash of his belt across my back. I was yelping from the first one when the second came, followed by a third and a fourth and so many more I lost track. Even through the crack of the belt and my howls of pain, I could make out Henry’s voice. He called out for me, and the anxiety in his voice shifted to enraged.

Instead of crawling for the bag, I almost moved toward the sound of his voice. Then Rob tossed his belt aside and gave his feet a turn. When his first kick landed against my stomach, causing me to wonder if he’d liquefied all my internal organs with one blow, my primal sense of survival resurfaced, and my direction changed back to the plastic bag.

“This night could have gone so differently. If only you’d been the obedient girl I know you’re dying to become.” Rob’s words were punctuated by his kicks, which were peppered with my cries, which were interrupted by Henry’s shouts.

“I know what way you had in mind,” I got out, spitting some blood. “Believe me when I tell you this is the better option.”

Then another fist connected with the other side of my face. “How’s that for better?”

I tasted blood, and my body throbbed from every part. I wasn’t sure what, if anything, would be left of me when Rob Tucker was done. If anything was left, it wouldn’t rest until I’d taken my revenge on him.

“Go to hell,” I spit as my fingers closed around the plastic bag.

“Not until I’m done with you.”

Another fist smashed onto my cheekbone. As I screamed from that hit, I managed to pull the bag close and fumble around until my fingers grazed cool metal. I worked fast to free the file, and just as Rob wound up for another punch, I flipped over and drove the file into his compacted fist. It went in deeper than I’d anticipated, and the pain almost instantly registered on his face.

“Go ahead. Hit me again. Or kick me. Or whip me.” Sitting up, I held back my wince and held up my weapon. “I dare you.”

Rob went from studying his hand as though he wasn’t sure what had happened to glowering at me. From the looks of it, I was the first person who’d stood up to him. He seemed unsure whether to finish the job with me or turn, tuck his tail, and run.

“Come on, you spineless piece of shit. Hit. Me. Again.” I arched my arm back, ready to drive the file into his eyeball if I needed to. Despite the beating I’d taken, my hand wasn’t wobbling. My voice wasn’t either. If my response to being brought as close to death as I’d been was being strong and not shaking, I could say with absolute certainty that I wasn’t fragile. At least not anymore.

After a few moments, Rob’s rage dimmed until a tilted smile moved into place. Then, flashing me a wink, he stood so he towered over me. I kept the nail clippers at the ready. At that position, they were heading for his balls if he tried anything.

“Until next time.” His smile became wider as he studied me sprawled out below him. Bastard. “Be a good girl.” He moved toward the elevator with purpose. He punched the down button, hopped on the moment the doors opened, and gave me one last wink before the doors sealed.

I sat there at the ready for another minute—my blood running down my face, my right eye swelling shut, my lower lip bulging—just in case he came back. When Henry’s voice broke through my haze again, I let myself exhale before collapsing onto the floor. The adrenaline was siphoning from my veins, and without it, my body was spent. Every hit, every lash, every part of me seemed to scream with pain. It became too much for my brain to process.

I felt unconsciousness coming on when Henry’s voice called out again. “Eve? Please. Are you there?”

Reaching for the phone, I managed to crawl an inch toward it before my energy stores were depleted. “Henry . . . help.”

“I’m here. I’m here with you. Help’s on the way, okay?” His voice wasn’t quite shaking, but it was close.

“Stay . . . with . . . me,” I whispered, sure he couldn’t have heard it.

“I’m here,” he replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His voice—his
promise
—was the last thing I heard before a darkness so deep came over me, I wasn’t sure if I could ever make it to the surface again.

HOSPITAL SHEETS. THEY had a distinctive feel and smell a person could never forget. I was in them. Just beneath the haze of whatever drug cocktail they were pumping into my veins, I felt the dull throb of pain.

Where was I? How did I get there? Why did I come there? Those were the questions I wrestled with as I struggled to open my eyes. After blinking a few times to adjust to the light in the room, I scanned my mind for my last memory. When I couldn’t find it, I tried searching for others . . . but there was nothing. I saw them, but I couldn’t decipher them. They meant nothing.

That wasn’t the ideal way for a person to emerge from a who-knows-how-many-days sleep in a hospital. Some memory,
any
memory, that meant something would have been nice, but every last one of them was almost weightless, floating and meaning nothing.

Then the door clicked open and in walked a person who managed to give weight to all of my memories. They all fell back into place as he approached me with a worried expression. And that was when my last memory played out.

Me, reaching for a phone in a hotel hall, hurt and bloodied . . . and a voice calling my name.
His
voice, promising he’d stay with me.

And there he was.

“Henry.” I tried getting out more, but my throat felt as if it had been stuffed with a tower of cotton rounds.

“Hi, beautiful.” He put on an unconvincing smile and stopped at the foot of my bed.

His suit was rumpled, his face unshaven, and the hollows of his eyes were two shades darker than normal. I couldn’t decide who looked worse, Henry or me. I had yet to see myself in a mirror. As Henry carefully inspected me, the line between his brows went deeper and deeper. I guessed I won the worst-looking award. Noticing a container of water on the tray beside me, I propped up on my elbows and took a small drink from the straw. After another, the cotton feeling in my throat was gone.

“Beautiful? You always were a terrible liar,” I said, my voice hoarse.

Henry came around the side of my bed and sat beside me. He grabbed my hand with both of his. “That’s not a lie, Eve. After hearing what I did on that phone . . . after hearing you scream and cry and those hits . . .” Henry’s eyes closed as he leaned his head into our connected hands. “Seeing you alive and in one piece is a beautiful thing indeed.”

Given I was the one in a hospital bed, I should be the one who needed comforting. But the opposite appeared true. From the looks of it, Henry had been through more of a beating than I had. I lifted my free hand and combed it through his messy hair.

“What happened, Eve? Who did this to you? Why did they do this?”

The memories were back and meant something, so I searched for that one. It didn’t take long to remember what had happened or who’d done it: assault, hotel hall, threats, unconscious, Rob Tucker.

Followed promptly by: Errand, Target, wife beater, Mrs. Tucker, freedom,
Eve
.

Shit, the Tucker Errand wasn’t the only one I was working. The man warming my hand happened to be my Target too. What the hell was he doing there? In Tampa? He’d been in Seoul when I passed out with him still on the other end.

Had I managed, in one unfortunate instance, to compromise both Errands? They were both important to me—the Callahan one because of who was involved and the dollar signs tied to it, and the Tucker one because of the devil I was dealing with. If G knew Henry Callahan was sitting beside me in a hospital in Tampa when I looked as if I’d just gone toe-to-toe with a heavyweight boxing champ, she would probably breathe fire.

G
. . . what was I going to tell her? Good thing she was taking a vacation in Mexico and threatened that unless it was a matter of life and death, not to bother her. Since I was still, technically, alive, I used that as my excuse to not call her right that second to let her know what had happened. But I’d have to tell her eventually, and just what was I going to say?

I had too many questions and no time or mental fortitude to work them out. It might have been the haze of the drugs or the haze of Henry, but something was definitely messing with my ability to think clearly and logically.

“Eve? Did you hear me?” Henry asked quietly. “Who did this to you?”

He looked at me, and the darkness that flashed through his eyes was staggering. Henry had always been a think first, hit second kind of person. Given the look on his face, if Rob Tucker were to appear and I pointed at him in answer, I had no doubts Henry would have a moment of hit first, think second. But Rob Tucker wasn’t there—thankfully—and Henry was waiting for my answer.

“I don’t remember,” I lied, needing to salvage whatever was left of keeping the Errands separate.

“You don’t remember
what
?”

I sighed. Henry was a natural problem solver. That was part of the reason he was the president of a Fortune 100 company, but that also carried over into his non-business life. Which was a pain in my ass given my compromising predicament.

“Anything, Henry. I don’t remember much of anything right now.”

“But—”

I shook my head. “Please, thinking about it is only giving me a headache. I’m sure when my head is less foggy and I have time to work stuff out, it’ll all come back to me.”

He looked ready to go one more round of rebuttal, but he closed his eyes and exhaled.

What is he doing here? How did he find me?

“What are you doing here, Henry? How did you find me?” Of all the questions I had, those were the ones I couldn’t stop repeating to myself.

“I’m here because you’re in the hospital looking a bruise or two away from being in a coma.” His forehead creased. “And I found you thanks to a Callahan Industries microchip locator.”

My eyes widened as far as they could given their swollen state. “You had me microchipped?” I would have shrieked that if my vocal chords were up to the task.

“What? No.” Henry shook his head. “Your phone. Every employee-issued phone is microchipped in the event—”

“In the event you might want to spy on an ex?” I raised an eyebrow.

“In the event one of my employees goes missing. I have employees who travel a lot to parts of the world that aren’t exactly friendly to Westerners. The microchip was invented and installed as a life-saving device, not a spying one.” Henry gave me a
You satisfied?
look.