Erased (4 page)

I knock again—harder this time.

Finally, soft footsteps make their way to the door and it cracks open. I’m slightly shocked that she actually answered considering the fact that she’s been hiding away for the past several days.

Her big, blue eyes peer out at me, full of fear. I watch the sweep of her long lashes across her cheeks as she slowly blinks. When her eyes open again, they are shuttered. The fear is no longer there; in its stead is simply wariness.

“What do you want?” Her voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s low. Defeated.

I feel an urge to wrap her up in my arms and comfort her.

I what?
I don’t think so.

“Jill, right?”
Joss.
I don’t want to think of her as Jill.

She nods hesitantly.

“I’m Derek Slade. Slade.” I’m afraid to touch her, so I don’t offer her a hand to shake. “I own the building and the bar downstairs. We need to talk.”

She hesitates again. I don’t make any attempt to reassure her. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and wait. I know I’m intimidating, but I don’t give a shit. She
should
fear me. If she lets her guard down around me, I’ll only break her further. But when I look into her eyes expecting to see fear, I see a gleam of irritation.

It’s cute.

A low growl rumbles from my throat. This crap needs to leave my head right the hell now.

“You can’t stay up here forever,” I tell her with furrowed brows.

She snootily lifts her nose but doesn’t disagree. The woman has to be bored to tears. No television. No books. Just her laptop which requires a security code to access the internet with the exception of email.

Finally, seemingly resigned, she steps back and pulls the door open. “Where’s here and who are you anyway?”

“You didn’t hear me the first time, Cupcake?”

Her eyes narrow slightly, “Not what your name is.
Who
are you? And where the hell am I?”

In four lengthy strides, I’m at the small desk along the far left wall. I plop down into the chair and scan the room. When my eyes return to her, I slowly take in her appearance from head to toe. Damn, she is beautiful. She’s tall, around five foot seven, but still dwarfed by my six foot-five height. Her body is long and lean with the exception of the generous curves of her breasts. She obviously found the suitcase next to the bed, because her endless legs are encased in a pair of ass-hugging jeans, and it’s a spectacular ass. When she lifts her arms to run her fingers through her long, straight, dark hair, her white T-shirt shows a sliver of her flat stomach, a sweet, little rhinestone twinkling from her belly button.

Wait . . . Long hair?

It hangs fluidly down her back, almost to her waist. I stifle a laugh. Cupcake’s got a defiant streak. My humor, though, leaves as quickly as it arrived. She needs to stick with the plan; I need to be able to protect her.

“As I mentioned, I own the apartment and the bar downstairs. We’re in Connecticut—middle of fucking nowhere. It has been
arranged
for you to live here, and I’ve got a job for you as a waitress. Luckily for you, one of my girls just quit, so it’s all yours, J.”

“J?”

I just can’t call her Jill. I just want her to be my Joss.

Well, shit.

She isn’t my anything except my job. For fuck’s sake, I barely know her. “Yeah, J. You don’t strike me as a Jill.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Or I can keep calling you cupcake.”

She purses her lips in annoyance. “J it is.”

There are questions on her face. Rather than volunteer information, I wait.

“Do we have an acquaintance in common?” she asks, sadness creeping back into her expression.

I need to make it go away, although I’m not about to examine why.

Leaning forward in my chair, my elbows on my knees, I consider how much to tell her. It’s not like I can tell her our parents know each other or some bullshit like that. Even if the son of a bitch uncle who raised me was still alive, he wouldn’t run anywhere near her circle. I excel at lying. It’s second nature to me. Yet I say, “You could say that. I was contacted by someone who was calling in a favor. You’re the favor. Apartment. Job. Now, we’re even.”

Even?
What bullshit.

As expected, annoyance flits across her face once again. “Is this how you treat all of your tenants? I find it hard to believe that anyone would pay to live in a dirty cell with a jackass for a landlord.” Sarcasm drips from her words.

This time, the chuckle slips out. I stand up and prowl over to her, stopping just inches from her face. Then I lower my head, keeping my gaze locked with hers. When she stubbornly refuses to retreat, I feel admiration prick at my conscience. Only when my lips are a breath away do I break eye contact, swerving my head until my mouth is right at her left ear.

“Most of my ‘tenants’ spend their nights in the bed across the hall.” And, because I’m an asshole, I let my tongue dart out and slide along the shell of her ear. Her quick intake of breath tells me that she isn’t unaffected by the sparks igniting between us. “If you’re ever interested in the same arrangement, baby, you just let me know.”

I stand back up, feeling satisfaction at the glassy look in her eyes. Stepping around her, I head for the door.

“I’ll be down in the bar,” I tell her. “Meet me down there in half an hour.”

When I glance back, my gaze lands on her hair. I twine a few locks of her hair around my fist, then tug softly and—
Wait.
Was that . . .

Did she just fucking whimper?

Blood begins rushing to my already semi-hard cock. After another tug, I hear it again. Then I let go before I pull her to me and swallow those whimpers.

“If you’re going to work in my bar, wear your hair up,” I say gruffly. “I don’t ever want to see it down. Half an hour.” With that, I stalk to the door and let it slam behind me.

Out in the hall, I brace a hand against the wall, trying to calm my erratic breathing. There’s no way I can head down to the bar with this raging hard-on. It’s taking every ounce of my strength to keep from going back in there and turning those whimpers into screams of ecstasy. My hand slams against the wall, anger quickly replacing desire.

I need to get my fucking head on straight.

Once I get myself back under control, I thump down the stairs to a landing at the halfway point and take the other half set on the right. This side of the stairs empties out into a back area by the kitchen, a small office, and a door that opens out right behind the bar. The other direction puts you in the back alley, allowing me to come and go with more privacy. I smirk—it also meant that my “tenants” wouldn’t have to do the walk of shame in front of my customers.

I push through the door into the main room and do a cursory sweep. It is early, just barely two in the afternoon, so only a few patrons are sitting at the bar or a table, nursing a drink or chowing on a burger. Delia and Simon, two of my more seasoned servers, are chatting at the bar while keeping an eye out for a customer who might need something.

“Simon.” I don’t raise my voice and it holds no inflection, but his head immediately lifts. I wave him over.

Simon is twenty-two and fresh into his first year of medical school. He is my best server. His good looks and easy smile make him a favorite with the customers. I study him as he walks toward me, and then I make split-second decision. I don’t want some pretty boy training J.

“Never mind.” I point at Delia and crook my finger at her.

Simon and Delia trade looks. It isn’t obvious, but I see the apprehension in their exchange. They don’t know me well, so their trepidation is understandable. I’ve owned the bar for over a year but have rarely been here to run it. It happened to be fortuitous that my manager resigned just as I was making the decision to settle here full time.

“What’s up, boss?” Delia stands in front of me, a question on her face.

“I have someone new starting today. I need you to show her the ropes. Get her fitted with a uniform and let her shadow you.”

Delia’s pert, little nose scrunches up in confusion. She is such a little thing, five foot nothing, with dark hair pulled into a bouncy, ponytail. I was worried about her being able to handle the unruly crowds in a bar, but my manager assured me that she was a pro. He was right. The girl made up for her height with attitude. She seems all sweet and sugary, but if some guy were to grab her ass, she’ll take his head off.

“Simon usually does the training. Don’t you want him to—”

I cut her off. “No. You’ll train J.” Damn it. “I mean
Jill.
” My teeth grit at the name.

Delia’s eyes widen a little at my sudden anger and she backs up a step. She is tough, but I scare the shit out of grown men, much less tiny girls with attitude. Problem is I don’t give a shit. If they fear me, they’ll follow my orders.

“She’s staying in the other boarding room upstairs. She’ll be down in about twenty minutes. I don’t want her on her own—not even for a second. Do you understand?” I demand.

Delia nods and scurries off to the pantry where we keep the uniforms.

I walk into my office but then have a thought that has me pivoting on my heel and calling to Delia down the hall. “Give her a pair of the guys’ black pants instead of the skirts you girls wear.”

I don’t wait for Delia’s reaction. Instead, I go back into my office, shut the door, and begin to make my way through some paperwork. Pretending all the while that my ears aren’t straining to hear footsteps on the stairs.

“THEY’VE MADE CONTACT, Stu,” I tell him as I rummage through my desk. “It took a couple of days, but I finally have an IP address worth looking into. I had to sift through at least twenty dummy accounts, but this is the only one that shows up more than twice.”

William has underestimated who he’s dealing with. We’ve worked together for years, so I know every trick he has up his sleeve. Every account he set up was routed multiple times, all over the world. But I narrowed it down to three and chose the most likely one. God, I hope I’m right.

“Great. Text me the address and I’ll check it out,” he assures me.

Finally finding my Rolaids, I pop the cap and dump a couple into my palm. “Listen, don’t go in there guns blazing. William is not stupid. He’s also not poor. I can bet my ass on the fact that he’s hired the best to protect her. If it is her, make sure first. I need to be absolutely certain. The last thing I need is the CIA on my shit. If we start piling up dead bodies in our wake, that’ll only lead a trail right back to me. We find the girl. We find Gideon. We get the password. End of story.” Then I dump the antacids in my mouth and crunch loudly in his ear.

“And if it’s her? What’s my cut again?” he asks greedily.

Rolling my eyes, I remind him, “Five hundred thousand. Not a penny more. All cash.”

He whistles into the phone and assures me that it will be done.

It. Fucking. Better. I have too much riding on this.