Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) (14 page)

I’m embarrassed that I even asked for Ryder to be brought in. I only saw him once more during the extensive questioning, but knowing he was still close by was comforting.

I can’t believe I doubted him now that everything’s said and done. In the moment, everything was just so surreal, and I couldn’t process it all. I was so sure he was crazy—that he was letting paranoia get to him and was racing me straight toward an early death. Of course, he was right all along.

Now, embarrassment doesn’t even come close to the mortification I feel as he walks through the studio-apartment-slash-military-barracks room where I’m pacing the floors. His presence unnerves me in so many ways.

“Hey.” I can feel my face flush under his gaze.

“Farrington,” he says. His voice is low and sounds like it’s being sifted through gravel. It’s sexy and deep and makes my lady parts ache. “Why aren’t you asleep yet?”

Ryder is a man that misses nothing. He looks completely at ease here in this place—he’s relaxed, and his demeanor immediately makes me feel the same.

“Can I talk to you over here for a moment?” I ask him.

There’s no privacy in this space, and the guards aren’t going to give us any. We step over to the cramped kitchenette that’s adjacent to the bedroom—that’s adjacent to everything else.

I stand there awkwardly with Ryder just one foot away from me. His frame towers above mine, his body seems indestructible and strong and I want to hide within his arms as if he were my own protective shell.
How did I ever doubt this man?

I know what I want to ask, but the thought is halted. I peer around the room—my assigned FBI agents are being casual, playing cards, watching out the window, looking at the television—but it’s not enough . . . intimacy.

“Come into the bathroom.” I grab Ryder’s arm and drag him through the door into the tight space where he crams his body against the sink.

I sardine in with him and close the door.

His eyes hold deep concern. “Are you alright?”

No. I am definitely not alright.

We’re pressed so close together—I hadn’t thought of that when I brought him in here—now my own tension is even thicker and my mind becomes foggy.

I open my mouth to speak, but his nearness renders me incoherent.

“You’re not alright.” Ryder gazes down at me with tenderness.

“I’m terrified,” I whisper.

“And you’re exhausted,” he confirms.

His breath smells good—like fresh mint toothpaste. His body gives off the scent of soap, and he’s in fresh clean clothes—a simple black t-shirt and military camo pants.

He radiates a heat my body and senses crave. Ryder says something, but I don’t
hear
the words, instead my eyes close with the timbre of his voice as it washes over me. I want to crush myself against his thick chest and stay hidden there until all of this is over.

“Ryder, you do know I’m a psychology student, and I realize this is probably terribly unhealthy but I—” My throat constricts, and I try to swallow the lump that forms, without success.

He leans his body forward and opens his arms—an invitation.

A strangled moan of relief breaks through my chest. His sweet invitation and acceptance are all I need to fold into him—into his rugged, gritty strength, into his immense and undauntable power.

He blankets me within his embrace.

In that moment I feel like I’m floating away, higher than I’ve ever been, filled with helium, even while I experience an anchoring to him as if I’m a ship moored to his docks.

The sensation is deliciously indescribable.

Something else is indescribable: the heat, the fever—the delirium amalgamating with peace, security and wanting. I know the ink that covers his skin; I know his passion and what he is capable of, the danger he is unafraid of and his commanding skills—they make him all the more volcanically attractive and incredibly potent.

Ryder’s chiseled arms flex and then release slightly—as if maybe he thinks it’s not a good idea to hold me and is about to change his mind—but he continues to cradle me in spite of his hesitation. I nuzzle deeper. His chest is solid like plate armor, as if he may be more than just a man—but then I feel and hear his heart beating unsteadily.

His humanity. Maybe I affect him too.

“Don’t leave me tonight,” I whisper. “Please, stay with me.”

His breath becomes raspy as he holds me closer and tighter, bringing me into him even more. “I can do that.”

I don’t want to let go—I loathe the very thought—but a yawn rolls up and through me as I’m consumed with exhaustion.

With Ryder here to protect me, l could fall asleep in seconds.

But with my body in a fiery frenzy, I don’t want to.

Still, considering that we’re surrounded by FBI agents, I have no choice but to douse the flames with sleep.

“Come on.” Ryder takes my hand in his and brings me out of the bathroom and to the bed.

I really, really wish the agents weren’t here.

“Lay down,” he orders.

I nod compliantly as he pulls back the sheet and waits for me to slip into the bed. Curling up facing Ryder, I hug my pillow—yeah, it’s a lousy substitute.

He takes a step into the kitchen area and takes a chair from the table, then sets it next to the head of the bed before sitting down with eyes wide open like a sentinel.

“Hey, Thompson, how about you turn off the television. It’s going to keep her awake.” Ryder starts barking orders. “And O’Connell, if you turn off the light you’ll live longer.”

I giggle at the good-natured threat.

“Thanks, Ryder.”

“No problem, Farrington.”

“It’s Rachel.”

“Yeah, I know.”

My mind stirs towards consciousness, but before I open my eyes I can’t remember where I am. For a moment between the twilight of sleep and wakefulness, I believe I’m still locked away in Miguel’s home. I startle awake, crying out.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.” The sound of Ryder’s voice cuts through the haziness and dissipates my terror.

I want to gather myself up and lunge into his arms, onto his lap. Let him hold me again—but all the agents are watching now that I cried out. My heart thumps wildly and adrenaline rushes.

“Breathe like this—in through your nose, out through your mouth—slow and easy, and it’ll calm you down,” Ryder instructs me as he does it himself as an example.

I follow his lead and wonder if it will help me not to cry in front of them all.

What I dreamt was all too real, and so are the events that are about to take place today. I’ll get up, shower and have some coffee, maybe a little breakfast, and then my detail will be bringing me back to New Orleans—to hide in plain sight, they called it.

Yesterday, I begged to go home, but they said no. They believe that would put my mom and Lemy in danger.

And maybe worse at this point, I know Ryder won’t be staying. I’m with the real agents this time and am safe, and he has a life and a job—and probably a girlfriend to get back to.

I close my eyes against the pain. I’ve known Ryder Axton for one day.

One day that feels like a lifetime.

But it was one day, nonetheless, a sequence of mere hours, and I have to let him go.

Silently, I roll out of the bed. I go about the morning ritual of readiness without speaking a word or even throwing a casual glance in his direction; I can’t—the fear and loneliness are too goddamn close—I’ll break.

I’ll shatter.

I brush out my long brown hair and check my make-up-less reflection in the mirror. Despite the sleep, I still look drawn and haggard. Dark circles punctuate my eyes. But there’s nothing else to be done, no procrastination I can think up to stay with him longer. My eyes meet the closed bathroom door. The men on the other side are antsy; they want to get out of the cramped room as desperately as I
don’t.

I finish dressing in the camo military-issued fatigues I was given. If Miguel’s men are watching from a distance, I should blend in. Even a few of the agents are clothed like this.

The only obstacle holding me back is a wooden door. Putting on my brave face, I join the others in the main room.

One of the agents speaks into an ear monitor. “The dove is ready. Is the convoy prepared?”

He listens intently before responding, “Affirmative.”

“You’re in good hands now,” Ryder tells me.

It could be my own delirious imagination, but to me it looks like he may feel as I do—that we’re walking away with unfinished business.

And isn’t that the worst—the wondering about what could have been?

I’ll miss you
hangs on my lips. I run my tongue across the words so they don’t spill loose.

“I have something for you.” He reaches into the wide pocket on his thigh and removes a small black box, like one you’d keep jewelry in.

Ryder dispenses with formalities and opens the box himself. His fingers hook around a silver chain, excavating the delicate necklace from the midnight velvet that holds it. He lets the chain dangle in the air so the sunlight streaming through the windows catches the pendant. Brilliant green gems are arranged among crystals and silver that curves to create a beautiful four leaf clover. It sparkles and dazzles, and I immediately love it.

“It’s for good luck. To keep you safe.” He takes a step into me and reaches his arms around my neck. “Pick up your hair.”

My muscles move by memory only, as if on autopilot. When my hair is gathered, he fastens the chain around my throat.

For a moment the clover simply dances against my throat while neither of us move.

“Your life will go back to normal sooner than you think. You’ll be back in classes and on that career track of yours; you’ll have a boyfriend, and all of this will only be a fading memory.”

“Do you really believe I could forget you so quickly?” I whisper, overcome.

Ryder brings his lips to my ear and in a hushed tone that is simple as a breath he says, “Then don’t.”

He steps back before I have a chance to respond.

“She’s all yours. Make sure I don’t have to intervene again,” he orders, and then he walks out the door.

He leaves!

How can he just leave?

My lungs burn and my chest constricts.
He didn’t say goodbye.

I let my fingertips caress the lucky clover and think,
When did he have the chance to get this?

It doesn’t really matter—he did, that’s what counts.

I’ll never forget you, Ryder Axton.

Chapter Ten

Ryder

“I should be out there looking for Eduardo Miguel.” I’m pissed as I send the dart rocketing through the air to the target twenty feet away on the wall.

“So get out there and find him,” Talon tells me, like it’s simple and I’m an idiot.

“The Bureau made sure to inform me that they want me as far away from this case as Siberia is from the Caribbean.”

“That’s because they don’t want you showing them up,” Josh says.

“It’s high profile. They’ll keep her safe, and that’s the important thing.” I launch another dart. “Right?” I don’t have to see them to know they both just rolled their eyes at me.

“Don’t you have wives or women to deal with?” I bark.

“Sophie and Charlie are with Quinn shopping,” Josh says like I wasn’t trying to insult him.

“I don’t need the drama.” Talon flips through an
Inked Magazine
. “And since when do you do what you’re told?”

“I’m not, exactly. I have Briggs scanning satellites and traffic cams, and I’ve got my ear to the ground while watching for Miguel to pop back up on the grid. All I need for him is to make one fucking mistake,” I extract the last three words slowly and pitch another dart. “I’m also keeping an eye on those stupid-ass cops in Mansfield since they weren’t suspended in the fiasco. But they’re carefully lying low too,” I explain. “But even all that’s not the same as beating pavement—the waiting is fucking agonizing.”

We’re hanging in the man cave in the back of the House of Ink and Steel—the tattoo and piercing shop that’s owned by my brothers. Well, they may not be my brothers by birth, but these guys are the truest brothers I could have ever asked for.

My tongue rolls into my cheek.
And I didn’t ask for them.

Maybe these guys were Chief’s way of looking out for me after he left this earth. I don’t know how all that shit works—life and afterlife—but that’s how it always felt to me. How it felt after we finally got past our differences, anyway.

If there had been more of a chance, more time, I would’ve explained to Farrington just what that tattoo scribed over my left rib, the one that says, “I am my Brother’s Keeper,” means.

“I swear to God! For a group of rugged bastards, you’re all sure turning pretty fucking domesticated.” Reese busts in through the back door with Liam, Connor and Chase. He takes one look at me. “Oh Christ! Even Ryder is in a mood. How am I supposed to hang out with you ass-clowns anymore if you’re just going to act like a bunch of grumpy old men?” 

“Do you want to get in the ring and have a go at me, Reese?” Josh doesn’t even bother looking up from his
Parenting Magazine
.

“Nope,” Reese is quick to answer.

I chuckle. Josh North is the Light Heavyweight Champion of the UFC at the moment and at the very top of his game.

“Good, then shut up, puppy,” Josh quips.

“Whatever.” Reese ignores him. “Liam and Josh now have no balls, only chains. Connor and Chase are only interested in using precious summer months for
more
school—I mean, honestly, who the hell does that? Talon is afraid to lose his virginity, and Ryder—”

The dart flies from my hand and shaves past Reese’s ear and into the door near where he stands.

“You were right before, I am in a mood, so don’t fuck with me.”

My brothers and I are going on a seven year familial relationship. How we all met and came together sucks ass in the worst ways possible. We all came from broken lives or damaged homes or no homes at all. We’ve all come a long way, though, and we’ve proven that personal success stories can be real.

North House saved us all. The home—brain child of Cade North, Josh North’s uncle—is a group home for destroyed teens that builds them back up again through rigorous physical, emotional and spiritual training with mixed martial arts.

We all lived there together—and it forged a bond among the seven of us that will never, never be broken.

“Why didn’t you—?”

“Tell her how I
feel
?” I almost laugh as I finish Talon’s sentence. “Wouldn’t that have been great timing?” I jeer. “I’ll get right on that. ‘Girl I rescued from a murderous drug cartel, sex slavery and death, I know you probably feel drawn to me simply because of the psychological effects of the fact that I saved your life, but I may have developed
feelings
for you.’ Get fucking real.”

I toss my last dart. “Doesn’t matter anyway—no timing is good. She has her entire life ahead of her. You don’t mess with that. You don’t tell a girl like
that
how you’re feeling.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Josh asks, calling me on my bullshit.

“You and Liam, you have a rare . . . thing going on. You found the women who are perfect for you—you deserve them.”

“Oh fuck, here comes the self-loathing,” Connor quips unsympathetically.

“You’re wrong. I don’t hate myself,” I correct, barely on the edge of calm. “I just don’t think that kind of relationship is in the cards for me.”

“Because you don’t
deserve
it?” Talon pushes.

“No, I believe any dumb fuck—like any of you—who gets their shit together is deserving. For me it’s a matter of destiny.”

Everyone falls dead silent.

Back when we were teenagers in North House we were forced to go to group therapy sessions. I never participated. Cade, who was, and still is, a great man and house-parent used to try to get me to let it all out one-on-one with him. I had no desire to.

I was consumed by fury—always raging—raging that I couldn’t right the wrongs, raging that we lost Betty, raging I couldn’t bring Chief back. I had become a dark, violent storm because I had no say in my own life. No control over who died and who didn’t.

I was filled with unending madness because I was all alone in the world.

I was, and still am, the volatile one of the group. The one they really don’t want to mess with. Liam is tough as hell, but he still had Quinn to make his rough edges smoother; Josh had a great life until bullies shattered his world, causing him severe pain and anguish. The rest of the brothers each had something to keep them sane—a sense of humor or just a better disposition than I had.

Don’t get me wrong, death is death and pain is pain, and I’m not thinking any of their pain was less than mine—not at all—we were all dealt a raw hand by the Maker of the Game.

I simply felt like the lone wolf, always on the edge of the pack, left alone to wander the earth for some unknown punishment.

I could never willingly pull a woman I had feelings for into that disastrous emotional mess. No way.

My
feelings
for Farrington need to be locked in a vault—and the key thrown into the depths of an abyss—so they can’t harm her.

But I can’t do that quite yet, because I’ve never felt this deeply for someone before. And even though it hurts like blistering hell, I want to hold on to it, so I can always remember what it was like. What she was like.

It’s been forty-two hours since I walked away and left her standing there looking at my back. I behaved like such an asshole—I couldn’t even say goodbye.

“Fuck this! Time for a relapse.”

With all my darts in the board, I stalk over to the Keurig and grab the first coffee pod my fingers land on.

“It doesn’t fucking matter, ’cause I’m not the guy who gets to ride off into the sunset with the girl.” I get a quick glimpse of the green and white foil top before I stick the pod into the machine, and not caring what the flavor is, I close the top and hit the button to start brewing. “She might think I’m a fucking hero, but I’m not.”

“You’re more of a classic anti-hero,” Chase puts in, stepping up to take the darts from the board.

“Yeah, you’re like fucking Batman,” Reese says with either sarcasm or awe.

I shoot him a death stare.

“I mean it as the highest fucking compliment, man. Batman is fucking awesome.”

“What smells like pizza?” Chase asks.

“Maybe Adrienne was nice for a change and thought of feeding the team,” Liam says. Adrienne is the girl who works the front of the shop.

Reese and Conner snicker.

“Just call her,” Talon finally says.

“Call her? She’s in FBI custody,” I say incredulously.

Chase shoots a dart. “Like you don’t know how to reach her.”

“I need to let her go.”

“If she’s interested, dude, wouldn’t she call you?” Reese says.

“You don’t know much about how high level witness protection works. She doesn’t have access to a phone, or mail, or any visitors. She’s cut off from her family and friends and her entire life stops until after Miguel is captured.”

Why the fuck are we still talking about Farrington? With no thought or joy, I lift the coffee to my mouth, blow across the top layer and pull in a mouthful.

I promptly spit it out to the floor. “WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Reese and Connor burst out laughing.

“Jesus, what the—?” I open the Keurig and snatch the little container out. “Papa John’s GARLIC!?”

Reese drops out of his chair. “I cannot tell you how long ago we put that in there for you!”

“Weeks ago, man, fucking
weeks
!” Connor can’t hide his extreme joy either.

Chase adds, “No wonder it smells like pizza.”

I take long strides to the fridge and pop open a beer to wash away the garlic taste.

“I forgot that was even in there,” Liam says. “Guess that means no pizza—I think I’m going to order a real one.”

“Man, I can’t believe he finally cracked and used it!” Reese is never going to let this go—it’s just that good. “We just kept reaching over it to the real coffee. We never thought you’d actually get to the point of
drinking
it, though. Seriously, how could you not notice the shit was yellow and smelled like garlic? You are in
way
over your head with this girl if she’s got you that distracted.”

“Congrats, you got me,” I tell him. “I’m heading home, it’s been a hell of a few days. And by the way, you can clean that up.” I point to the mess on the floor and the now disgusting Keurig. That flavor is going to be stuck in the machine for days.

I look over at Reese, who has now stopped laughing, which makes me smile as I walk out the door and down the hallway that leads to the artist alcoves.

The shop is owned by Liam and Talon, and I’ve helped run it since its inception, but I left it behind some months ago to focus solely on my booming security business. But one thing has always been a plus—this feels like home, and when I need to express myself in some non-violent way, I take a client or two and create some art. Liam got me into that back at North House. It saved me for a while, but that kind of expression and my own denial of my issues could only appease me for so long.

I position myself on top of Delilah—my 2015 black Kawasaki Ninja—and head to my apartment in the city, thinking of nothing but Farrington.

For the next couple of weeks I purposefully avoid my brothers and throw myself headlong into my job.

I restored dignity to the St. Paul police department by bringing Farrington back into protective custody, so D’Angelo starts throwing lots of bones my way. It’s good for my savings, and I begin contemplating the idea of a much needed vacation in some tropical locale. I like the idea of skimpily clad beach divas, tall, strong drinks and no noise except for the sound of the waves hitting the shore.

Eduardo Miguel is no nearer to trial than he was when he escaped from that transport. The FBI can’t get a lead on him, even with all of the manpower they’re throwing at the problem.

In my spare time—which I should call
all
of my off hours—I hunt him via search engines, webcams, paper trails; every tool in my arsenal, I employ. He’s disappeared so effectively. He probably has all sorts of money hidden in offshore accounts.

But one thing my intuition is telling me is to wait and be patient. A man like Miguel doesn’t want to stay hidden, he wants notoriety and to take pride in his work.