He doesn’t reply, and I let it go. I have no clue what the rush is, but what I do know is Cruce just most likely saved my life, so if he’s feeling an urgency to leave, I need to respect that.
I bend over to grab my makeup case from under the cabinet. Suddenly, pain slices across my left rib cage.
“Damn,” I hiss as I straighten, pulling my tank up so I can see what in the blazes caused it.
The entire left side of my ribs is scraped with mottled bruising underneath. It all comes back in a rush—when Cruce shot the man and he fell into my path, I’d careened out of control and ran into a cement porch railing. I’m not sure I felt it then, but I can clearly see—and feel—the results of the impact now.
“Jesus,” Cruce says from the doorway, his eyes pinned on my ribs. He rushes toward me, pulling my tank up even higher so he can examine it. The bottoms of my breasts are exposed, covered in a sweaty bra, but I don’t care.
I’m beyond caring about petty stuff right now.
“You ran into the porch railing,” he murmurs, apparently having seen me do that. Amazing, given he was all busy with shooting and keeping his attention on the man who tried to kill me.
Cruce lets out a heavy sigh as he gently pulls my tank down. His hands go to my shoulders, and he gently squeezes. “I’m going to go get some ice for that. Why don’t you jump in the shower and clean up the scrapes?”
I nod, unable to speak. I prefer the hardened, all-business Cruce. This softer version makes me feel like crying for some reason.
Another squeeze to my shoulder and he starts to turn away.
“This is real, isn’t it?” I ask, my voice quavering slightly.
He nods. “Very real. And the fact whoever wants you was willing to try to snatch you off a public street means they are not operating with subtlety. They want you at any risk, and I expect they’re going to come back sooner rather than later.”
“Where will we go?” I ask.
“Pittsburgh for now,” he replies. “We’ll figure it out from there.”
An idea strikes me. “I have stuff at my office I need to get.”
“Tell me exactly what it is, and I’ll send men over now to get it,” he replies.
After I give him the details, he leaves me in my bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror for just a moment before I spring into action. My ribs feel okay as long as I don’t bend in the hurt side’s direction. I take a shower as Cruce ordered, soaping up the scrapes and gently drying them after. When I’m done, I run a brush through my wet hair, but otherwise ignore it.
Since we’re traveling, I dress in a pair of black leggings and a loose, off-the-shoulder t-shirt along with my trusty, yet squeaky Chucks. They give me slight comfort as I’m getting ready to head off into the unknown, terrified my life is now in danger. My safety has now become more important to me than my work.
A soft knock at my door announces Cruce. He has an ice pack, and he hands it to me. I put it up against my ribs, thankful for the t-shirt in between to ward off the cold.
“You ready to go?” he asks.
I nod, pointing to the small tote I’d filled with my toiletries. I have to trust Cruce packed appropriate clothing for me, since my large suitcase was filled and zipped tight when I got out of the shower.
He moves for the door, but I reach out and grab his arm. Curiously, he meets my eyes.
“Thank you,” I tell him softly. “For saving me out there.”
“Just doing my job, Barrett,” he replies gruffly, then starts to turn away from me.
Holding tightly to him, I force his attention back to me. I squeeze his forearm for affect. “In polite circles, when someone thanks you, you really should say ‘You’re welcome’.”
Cruce’s lips curve upward, and I’m shocked when he moves into my space. His hand goes behind my neck, and his face dips close to mine. Tilting his head slightly, he replies ever so softly, “You’re welcome.”
I smile, knowing this is more than a job to him. Just as with my uncle, Cruce cares about his work to such a degree that failure is never going to be an option. He goes above and beyond. In this moment, I realize I’ll always be safe with him.
♦
Something is shaking me, and I hear Cruce’s voice pierce the fog of sleep. “Wake up, Barrett. We’re here.”
I blink slowly, sit up straight, and bring my hand to the seat belt to release it. I don’t remember falling asleep, but we’re now in a dark, basement-type parking lot. There’s not much ambient light, but enough to see the walls are covered with graffiti and garbage is strewn over the cement floor.
“Where are we?” I mutter, rubbing my eyes.
“Jameson headquarters,” he replies before exiting the vehicle.
I wrinkle my nose, not all that impressed with what I’m seeing.
I get out and follow, wondering what kind of business is located in a dump like this. And for that matter, I wonder if Uncle Jon has ever been here. All my confidence in Cruce starts to ebb seeing as how he’s led me into some seedy underbelly of Pittsburgh.
At a massive steel door, Cruce opens a panel, hits a button, and then steps in close. I’m stunned when a green laser shoots outward to scan his eyes. There’s a clicking sound, and Cruce opens the door.
From that amazing bit of technology, I expect to enter into a technologically advanced fortress. Instead, we enter into what looks like an old abandoned warehouse. Dirty concrete flooring, garbage all over, and even more graffiti over the red bricked interior. The arched windows, while lovely, are covered in dirt so thick barely any light shines through.
I follow Cruce across the floor to the opposite side of the building where there’s a freight elevator. Another eye scan has the scrolled gate unlocking, and we step inside. It creaks and groans its way up one floor. As it comes into view, I’m absolutely astounded by what I’m now seeing.
Sleek hardwood floors, refurbished red brick walls, and high-end furniture. I get a glimpse of desks and computers before we continue up. There’s not much to see on the third floor except more gleaming hardwood floors and a long hallway that has several closed doors.
We go up one more floor, which by my account is the 4th if you count the parking garage as a basement level. The elevator comes to a shuddering stop. The grate opens, and we step into what looks like a huge living room.
Large couches, plush recliners, and a huge wall-mounted TV make up a cozy sitting area. To the right is a massive industrial kitchen. Beyond that, a short hallway ends in a T-intersection.
“There you are,” a woman’s voice says, and I turn in that direction.
My jaw drops as I take in the blonde walking my way, her arms outstretched and an empathetic expression on her face.
Before she reaches me, I mutter to Cruce, “Holy shit… that’s Joslyn Meyers.”
I may mostly lock myself away in a world of energy and physics, but one of my pleasures is music and Joslyn Meyers is a favorite of mine. She’s an A-lister who can both act and sing, and I have every one of her albums.
The petite woman wraps me in a big bear hug, then she pulls away to scan me with almost motherly concern.
“Clearly, you know Joslyn,” Cruce says dryly. “She’s Kynan’s fiancée and the mother hen of the group.”