Author's note: Wow! This chapter ended up being longer than anticipated. It was a fun one to write, so I hope that you enjoy it. Thanks to all who read and review. :)
Chapter 26
Elena
"Oh, hell," I groan, clasping my arm and screaming into the hotel pillow. The searing pain in my arm intensifies, waking me up. I must've tried to lay on that side in my sleep. I was so tired when I got to my room, I slept right on top of the bed. I squeeze my eyes tight and reach for whatever's poking me in the arm. My car keys. They must've fallen out of my pocket and snagged on the now bloody gauze. When I look at the white duvet, there's a large blood spot where my arm was.
Blood is trickling down my arm again. I hop off the bed and rush to the bathroom, placing a towel over the wound, adding pressure. I need someone to stitch this up. My new phone rings and holding the towel, I run back to the bed and dig it out of my backpack. I already know who it is before I click accept. "At least I made you work for my number," I say into the phone, sitting down on the edge of the bed. If I remember correctly, I blocked him the one time I called him from this number.
"You already know I am a well-connected man," he says, his thick accent light with humor. "You are not staying in the penthouse I reserved for you."
"Well," I say, pausing to move the cloth. I suck in a breath as I reposition it. Damn, it aches. "When the front desk clerk referred to me as one of your girls, I was worried the debt I inherited included entertaining unexpected visitors."
"I do not think of you that way," he says, and he sounds angry. There's a definite edge to his voice. "You are hurt. I can hear it in your voice. I will send a doctor to your room."
That's a lot of information to digest in thirty seconds. "Is it a real doctor or a mafia doctor?"
"They are one and the same."
Okay, then.
"So, you called? Is this to give me information on where to pick up my father's things?"
"Hmmm," he hums into the phone. "That is a complicated situation."
"Dom, you promised."
"And I will fulfill that promise," he replies. "Take out the computer you purchased yesterday."
With one hand, I unzip my backpack and pull out the MacBook. I open it up and log on. Not at all surprised he knows I bought a computer. "Now what?"
"Insert the flash drive you found," he replies.
Wait, what?
"I scanned some of the information on there. I saw documents, ledgers, taxes, and memos. I didn't see anything about myself."
He chuckles darkly into the phone. "That is not information about my business."
"Whose business is it? I saw your name all over the documents."
"Are you sure about that?"
I insert the flash drive and click on the files I scanned yesterday. He's right, I assumed because I thought he was delivering the drive. I guess it is true what they say about assuming, it does make an ass out of u.
"I have much more money than what you read," he says into the silence between us as I scan documents. "It is not important information."
"So why did you hide it in the car. I thought the product I was delivering was the flash drive."
"That is not the product you are delivering. The front seats have Chirow sewn into them." I didn't check the front seats; how could I be so dense? "There is a file titled Everglades Port, click on that and you will find another file titled Lolita, click on that file."
Lolita? Seriously?
I didn't see it before, but I didn't search every file. After looking through a few, they all seemed to be the same. I click on the file and it requires a password. "What's the password?"
"Cherry03," he says.
Odd password. I enter it in and the file opens up. It's scanned documents with dates listed below. I click on the first one and it's a letter addressed to me. "Where are the actual letters?"
"You will get them when you make the drop," he replies. "I am sending you a new drop point. The doctor is delivering extra ammunition. Call me when you reach Ft. Lauderdale."
"Sure," I say, scanning the files.
"Oh, and Ms. Gilbert?"
"Yeah?"
"You missed a tracker," he replies simply before hanging up.
I guess that's payback for dropping information at the end of our last phone call and then abruptly hanging up. There's a knock on the door, and I assume it's the doctor. I look through the peephole and see an older gentleman carrying a duffle that looks like it could be medical supplies. Still… "Who's there?"
"I can open the door with the keycard the front desk clerk gave me, but I decided the polite thing to do would be to knock before barging into the room to help you, Ms. Gilbert," he replies, sounding tired. He's probably used to these types of house calls. Being a mob doctor and all. "I'm Doctor Friedrich Zimmerman."
I open the door for him. He walks in and starts setting up shop on a small breakfast table near the bed. He glances at my arm. "Bullet wound?"
I nod. Good eye.
"Sit," he orders.
I don't. I kind of stand there, trying to decide if I should run or sit in the chair opposite him. He has salt and pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He's in shape and looks at me through his silver-framed glasses impatiently. The navy polo and khakis tell me I interrupted a game of golf at some exclusive country club.
"If I don't fix your wound, it will become infected and you do not want that," he says, pointing to my arm. "I'm here to help you. Domenico pays me well for my services, so please sit down before you bleed all over the carpet."
I glance at the towel, it is starting to drip. I walk over to him and sit in the chair. On the table, he's laid out a blue medical cloth and laid out supplies. He puts on blue gloves and with his glasses perched on his nose, he gently removes the cloth dumps it into a plastic bag and starts to remove the gauze and butterfly bandaids I applied last night. "Did you put any ointment on the wound?"
"No, just vodka to sanitize it," I reply.
He nods and inspects the wound. "The bullet grazed you but it's deep. You're going to need stitches."
I figured as much. He takes out a syringe and fills it with a solution in a small glass bottle. "This is to numb the area. I'll also apply a topical numbing agent."
I nod. "Do you do this often? Clean up Moretti's messes?"
I'm distracting myself because holy hell, he inserts the syringe in my arm and it hurts like a bitch. "You're not one of Domenico's messes. He paid me extra to rush here. He doesn't do that for people he's not invested in."
Great.
He cleans my wound and then dabs a solution on the area and we wait until the numbing kicks in. He prepares to do stitches until he decides he can sew me up. I look away as he starts stitching me up. "Do you help Domenico often?"
"I'm from Mystic Falls, Elena. Dom flew me in early this morning."
Must've been when he first heard from me.
"You're from Mystic Falls?"
"I learned from your father. The stitch I'm doing on you right now, he taught me. We worked together for a very short time."
"Grayson Gilbert isn't my father," I say, because I need to say it aloud as many times as I can so the information will stick. It's easier to place him in the category of not-father, but I forget, usually when I'm missing him.
"I know," he replies, continuing his work. "And for someone who isn't technically your father, he sure did brag about you a lot."
"Did you introduce my dad to Mr. Moretti?"
"Quite the opposite, actually," he says, continuing his work. "He introduced me to Domenico."
"Really?"
"Don't judge the actions of a desperate man," he replies. He's not mad, just keeping the conversation to keep me distracted. "I'm from a small town in eastern Germany. I moved to Mystic Falls after my wife got her dream job working at the university. I was already a doctor in Germany, but an old man wanting to practice in the United States is expensive. In Germany, I worked in the hospital and I was respected. In the United States, I had to take classes full of kids I was a few decades older than and the classes were expensive. Your father helped me out by introducing me to Domenico Moretti and letting me work with him for a short time."
"Why did you leave Germany when you already had a life there?"
He paused his stitch and looked up into my eyes, making sure I heard every word. "You follow love. My wife is my life, where she goes, so do I."
I frowned. Seems kind of selfish for her to move them across the world for a dream job.
"You don't know love," he replies after observing my reaction, his eyes back on stitching. "When you love someone, you're willing to give everything up just to be with them. I don't like it when my Hanna goes on a research trip without me. So my work with Mr. Moretti affords me the opportunity to go with her and treat her how she deserves."
I haven't called Damon except for leaving that message. What does that say about us? Deep down I know that I didn't want him to come because I knew he'd interfere. I could've gotten away with telling him where I was, I thought I got rid of the GPS trackers, after all. If Damon were here right now, he'd want to go to Miami on his own. He'd probably leave me in this hotel room to do it himself. I know deep down he just doesn't want me hurt, but I can concentrate without him here. I don't have to worry about dragging him into more family drama. He doesn't need this on his plate.
I lied to the police. Yes, it happened many years ago, but it ruined his life. I ruined his life. Maybe I'm still having a hard time believing his forgiveness.
"Ah," the doctor says. "You do know love."
My brows furrow. "Huh?"
"In ninety seconds, your face read every emotion known to man and you were so deep in thought, you didn't hear me tell you that I finished the stitches," he observes.
He's weird. I can see why Grayson liked him.
I look at my arm. There are small black stitches sticking out of my skin. He proceeds to show me how to care for my arm and places a bandage over the wound. "I will find you when it is time to remove them. Probably in ten days. That was deep, you are a lucky girl."
He cleans up his mess and packs his bag after handing me extra bandages and a couple tablets of pain medication. "This is not the good stuff, but it'll do the trick. Take it in an hour when the numbing wears off."
"Thank you," I say, walking him out.
He opens the door and turns back to me. "Your father loved you. I know you don't believe it, but I know from my heart he did."
After he leaves, I sit on the bed, open up my laptop, and start looking through the information my dad left me. I know I have to get on the road soon, but I can afford thirty minutes of searching. Most of the files are letters that I don't have time to read. Letters that were never sent, possibly because he was worried about Miranda intercepting it. I'm unsure.
Huh.
There are a few files that from the thumbnail picture have the blue tinge of official government certificates. The first one is Jeremy's death certificate. I don't know why he sent me this, considering his information lines up to what I already know. Intentional drug overdose. Suicide. Words that have floated through my mind since he passed away. Then I click on another. It's a birth certificate for Viviana Elena Giovanni. Female. Manhattan, New York.
Is that…
I look at the date and do the math.
No.
Seriously, no.
How?
Seriously, why?
"I'm seventeen?" I yell, knowing no one can hear my outrage.
Maybe this is a cousin. Or a half-sister that I've never met.
Then I see written under mother, Isabella Russo, and father, Antonio Giovanni. He was there when I was born. Giuseppe's version of events was different. According to him, I was hidden by the Founding Families and no one ever knew I existed. Antonio knew. Where was Isabella when her daughter was given to the Gilberts?
I'm seventeen.
According to this document, I turned seventeen two weeks ago. My birthday was the day after the cabin. I was fifteen when I got my driver's license. I should technically be in my junior year of high school.
I want to start reading Grayson's letters because I have a feeling they'll give me answers, but instead, I pack everything up and check out of the hotel.
I doubt the valet realized he was probably sitting on thousands of dollars of drugs when he pulled up with the Rav. I'm completely gobsmacked by the news that I don't remember getting on the interstate going south. My whole world has been turned inside out. I'm seventeen. Holy hell. I won't be eighteen and legal for another year.
With the ocean on my left, my brain doesn't have time to digest everything. I decide to call the one person who knows what I'm going through.
"Yes?"
"Did you know?"
"You are going to have to be more specific," he replies huskily, but I hear the humor in his voice. Of course, he thinks this is funny.
"My birth certificate," I stated through gritted teeth.
"Ms. Gilbert, I liked you at sixteen and I like you at seventeen."
"Gross."
"In many countries, you would be at the age of marriage," he states like it's the most normal thing in the world.
I don't buy it.
"You mean, in the mafia world it is perfectly normal," I argue. "You wouldn't bat an eye at kidnapping me to Las Vegas."
He growls on the other end. "Do not tempt me, Ms. Gilbert."
"Does the Russo or Giovanni families know about me?"
He pauses.
"Both names were on the certificate. You saw the certificate. I know you're trying to compete with them, even though you're small potatoes by comparison. I can see why you're stringing me along, it's only beneficial to you. However, if either family knows about me, I might just have to make myself known," I lie, trying to get him to spill what he knows. He has to hear things. "Collect my inheritance. You know how badly I could use the money."
I don't have to be looking at him to know I just pissed him off.
"I have been kind to you, Ms. Gilbert," he reminds me. "You know who I am and you know that I can have men pick you up and take you to my compound in a matter of minutes."
"Kind to me?" I laugh. "You are using me for your own gain, or entertainment, I'm no longer sure. I'm sitting on your product that according to you, only I can deliver. You screwed over my dad and my mom screwed over me by selling information to you. Now I owe you for their mistakes. You know what, I am sure about what this is, I take my earlier comment back. I am here to entertain you. Take up a fucking hobby like ceramics or cross-stitching and leave me the fuck alone."
"Language, Ms. Gilbert," he says calmly. He's not mad, he's placating me. "You are my hobby and you are taking up a lot of my time. You did not look through all the files, I suggest you do so. Follow the directions I sent you can call me when I arrive."
"Yes, master," I say in my best imitation of Barbara Eden.
"Ms. Gilbert," he growls.
Again, gross.
"I'm seventeen" I remind him and myself cause this is all still weird.
"But you will not always be seventeen."
And then he hangs up.
What is my life? Seriously? Everywhere I turn there are people ready to use me and ruin any semblance of happiness or hope that I have.
I have no hope.
I am a pawn for revenge, power, and money.
Moretti, Giovanni, Russo. Three powerful names that want me because of my DNA and what that means to their power. They're already taking power away from me, draining me little by little.
I can't do this. I pull over, open the car door, and run into the wild brush. Leaning over, I heave the hotel coffee I drank when I started this leg of the journey. Sweat coats my brow as car after car speeds by. The humid fall air doesn't help my current predicament. Minutes pass and my stomach continues to lurch until my knees buckle and I fall to the ground. The freeway gravel bites into my thighs, but I don't care. I sit with my head in my hands and allow myself to think a thought I didn't want to admit earlier. I wish Damon were here.
Then it starts. Loud, ugly sobs overcome me at the thought of having my friend, the one who sat under the kitchen table with me after my parents argued and held my hand. I can't call him. I can't allow myself to drag him into this. I don't know what I'll face in Ft. Lauderdale and I still don't know who those guys were that chased me in the mall.
I need to focus on one thing. One thing I can handle right now. I can get up. I can stop crying. I can start the car and I can drive. So that's what I do. I wipe my face, stand up, walk back to the driver's side door, and continue my journey.
Damon
"We've hit a snag," Santiago says and to his credit, he looks scared.
"What kind of snag?"
"The Reyes cartel is now involved."
The moment I heard the news of a shoot-out in Macon, Georgia, I was set to go. The jet was fueled and ready to depart. However, because the Mystic Falls PD has it out for me, they decided to bring me in for questioning regarding the Elmwood estate fire. Even though I have an alibi for the fire I set, there's video of me running a stoplight within a mile of the scene of the crime within the time the fire was set. Cameron, who said he was billing me triple, got me out just after midnight.
Information on a shoot out in Macon, Georgia, and a girl matching Elena's description busting through a parking attendant barrier, happened six hours ago. Santiago is supposed to be looking through CCTV footage to locate Elena.
"How do you know?"
"CCTV footage shows them following her from the moment she drove through Atlanta; their territory is south of Atlanta through Florida," he explains.
"Why are they following her?"
"They have people in Mystic Falls, just like Moretti has people everywhere. They probably saw her with Moretti and then saw her leave in one of his cars."
His mission probably involved Elena delivering his drug somewhere south. It's not a stretch considering what he's already had her do. I mentally think of Moretti's interests and have a feeling he's trying to get into Miami. The Reyes cartel is based out of Miami, my guess is they'd be pissed if Moretti was trying to distribute in their territory.
Moretti using Elena's charm to get his new product into the Miami territory is likely. He was probably surprised she sold what he gave her within the time constraints.
Or this could be Moretti's in. His way of developing a relationship with the Reyes cartel by slipping his product in their territory. While the Families own cities like Chicago and New York, the cartels own the south- they own the boarders. A mafia family developing a relationship with a cartel could be huge. However, it doesn't happen because it's against the mafia's way of doing things. It's against their code. Moretti is branching out and doing anything to gain more power. Using Elena to develop that relationship seems likely. Slipping her in there to impress them, they capture Elena and Moretti swoops in to not only save her but get their attention. He sells his new product and bam, a new port, and a new distributor. It's a stretch, but Moretti is new, he's not an established family. He doesn't have a limit to how far he'll go for power.
"We know what car she's driving. The only thing I care about is finding her. We know where she's being sent, so that narrows our search. Find her and have your local contacts take her. I don't care if you have to kidnap her while she's pumping gas, she can't go to Miami." She'd kill me, but she'd be alive. "How many views is the video at?"
Santiago clears his throat. "Twenty-million."
Jesus.
"That quickly?"
"I don't know if you know this, sir, but pornography is pretty popular."
In seconds, my right-hand squeezes into a fist and punches Santiago across the face. He isn't knocked out, but he falters to the ground, holding his jaw. "I fucking know porn is popular," I growl, looking down at him. "Who was the buyer?"
He opens his mouth to stretch it and wipes blood coming from a split lip. "Starr Industries."
Great. Preferring the real thing over some scripted cheesy as fuck video, I never saw the allure of porn, but even I know Starr Industries. Twenty-million views means they've already made ten times that. People will know who Elena Gilbert is all over the world, which means the families know she's alive and where she is. I look at my phone, tracking her route from Macon to Miami. Time is not on my side, I need to get her into hiding now.
"I'm taking one of the family jets to West Palm Beach," I say. "Put your whole team on finding her. Call me the moment you have her, if not, I'll find her no matter the cost."
Santiago nods and leaves.
Goddammit. Noah is in jail but I want to kill him, Chase, and Frederick.
I miss her. The smell of her vanilla shampoo, the way she smiles after her first sip of one of my coffee concoctions, the way she laughs when I say something that might be considered offensive. She'd curl up against me at night and hold onto me like she was afraid I'd leave. She emits this contended sigh that immediately gets my dick hard. The night she was dressed up as Wonder Woman and stripped, she did the same thing when she fell asleep against me at the club. It's like she knew it was me.
After that night in August, I should've taken care of her. I shouldn't have abandoned her, even if my dad sent me to rehab. I could've left that weekend and protected her from what I knew was coming.
We have enemies coming at us at all sides and the one thing I know for sure is that I need her.
Elena
For the past hour, a black sedan has been following me and I can't lose him. I tried speeding, swerving around cars, taking detours, and the same sedan ends up right on my ass. I eye the needle praying it'll go up past the red line. I'm twenty miles from Ft. Lauderdale, where no one would dare do anything in broad daylight. At least, I think.
If I let myself run out of gas, I'm a sitting duck for all of thirty seconds before they kill me and grab what's in the car. If I go to a gas station, there'll be cameras everywhere. Except I can't go in to pay. I don't think I can pump gas without the car getting taken since the gas cap is on the passenger side. If I run the gas low enough, they won't be able to get away. I just need to wait until I can find one of those gas stations where truckers stop. Uncle John always said that if I was ever in trouble truck drivers are some of the nicest people on the road. Trust company drivers, he told me.
My eyes flick to a green sign on the side of the road.
One more mile to the Love's Truck Stop.
Fifteen to Ft. Lauderdale.
I look at the needle again.
I'm not going to make it.
What would Moretti do if I don't deliver the drugs? Up the timeline of his plan to marry me. Kill Damon. Neither is an option.
I look in my rearview mirror and watch the black sedan. The windows are tinted, so I can't make out who's in there or how many. I take my debit card out of my pocket and hold it between my fingers so I'm ready to go. With one hand on the wheel, I unplug my phone and put it in the pocket of my sweater. Then I take the gun out of the glove compartment and move it to the back of my jean shorts, using my zip-up sweatshirt to hide the bulk.
Keeping my aviator sunglasses on, I dig through a messy pile of the few items of clothes I have and towels I stole from the hotel laying out on the passenger's seat until I find the Gators baseball cap I bought outside of Jacksonville. I put it on and check the mirror again. Still following closely but is now behind an old Ford Taurus.
Because it's a truck stop, there are a lot of gas pumps. I search for one that's between two pumps and pull up to the middle pump. A blue van filled with kids sits in front of where I park. Behind the Rav, the beat-up Taurus backs up behind me so our rear bumpers are less than a couple feet apart. Shitty parking job. Their gas cap must be on the passenger side.
On the other side of the pump is a large Ford F150 truck. This will have to do. I'm blocked on three sides and there are enough people around that no one would dare try anything.
I pull a switch beneath the steering wheel to unlock the gas door. I grab my incredibly heavy backpack, sling it over my shoulder, hop out of the car, lock it with a press of a button, and run to the other side of the car. I insert my debit card once it's accepted, I remove the nozzle and start pumping.
I swear I chose the slowest pump. I'm dancing in place, waiting for the gas to fill enough for me to get to Ft. Lauderdale.
Keeping one hand on the nozzle, I look at my surroundings. The black sedan parked in front of the truck stop. A woman wearing a white shirt with Micky Mouse on the front walks out carrying bags of drinks and junk food. She walks over to the van in front of me and gets in, handing items to her kids.
Shit, my cover on that side will be gone.
Whoever is in the black sedan sitting right in front of the shop thinks I'll go in when I'm done. With the F150 blocking me, I might be able to lose black sedan before they realize I left.
I glance behind me at the Taurus. A man in greasy blue coveralls, wearing a trucker hat that's pulled low, gets out of the passenger side of the car. Catching my gaze, he licks his dry, chapped lips, nods at me, and walks around his car so he can pump gas while his friend sits waiting in the driver's seat, playing with the radio stations.
The pump finally clicks that it's done and keeping an eye on the front of the truck stop, put the nozzle back and close the gas cap. I run around the car, unlock the front door and just as I swing the door open I feel what is unmistakably a gun pressed into my ribcage. I move slightly, praying he doesn't realize I have a weapon in the waistband of my shorts. In the window, I see a reflection of the guy in coveralls behind me. "Give me the keys," he growls.
"I've already been shot, I'd rather not be again," I argue.
"Keys," he repeats.
I need to stall. "Do you really want this car? Did you see how banged up it is? Now your '92 Taurus, that's a nice car. Hey, what about the Ford F150? Wouldn't you rather drive that? Go big or go home, that's what I always say."
He leans in closer so I can smell the his rotten breath. "Keys now, or I'll leave your pretty little body here for my friend over there."
"Okay." I rise to the balls of me feet, readying myself curling my fingers around the keys in my hand. "You asked for it!"
I fling the keys into the trunk of the F150 and in the chaos over the shock of what I did, I run around the pumps. Gunshots ring through the air as I sprint past the black sedan with tinted windows, and into the truck stop's store.
I am so tired of being shot at. Can the mafia and drug cartel please give me twenty-four hours of peace to recover? My arm still freaking hurts.
I slide past attendants working at the gas station unnoticed as they try to figure out what's going on. A massive man with a handlebar mustache and a paunch belly hanging over his jeans pulls out a shotgun from behind the register.
Time to jet.
I pull the other strap of my backpack over my shoulder and walk to the back toward the bathrooms. In truck stops, bathrooms are different than a regular gas station because there's an area of private bathrooms where truck drivers can shower. They're pretty clean since you have to pay to use them. I run down a hallway full of doors to private showers and credit card machines on the outside. Looking both directions and making sure the coast is clear, I slide my card through the machine. When my card is accepted, a green light comes on indicating that I can go inside.
I step in and shut the door. It locks with a click and the green light turns to red. A timer flashes on the door; fifteen minutes to figure out what to do next.
I place my backpack down, and opening the sliding glass door to the shower, turn it on. Last thing I need is for someone with a gun to figure out I'm hiding in a bathroom with a timer readying to go off like a sitting duck.
I pace back and forth in the small bathroom.
I'm in South Florida and I lost my only mode of transportation. I could call Dom and tell him I failed his mission but that may lead to Damon being killed and me walking down the aisle handcuffed to a man twice my age.
The brand new Rav4 Domenico ordered me to drive was full of bullet holes and had a massive dent in the front from leaving the mall last night. There's no way Ford Taurus guy wanted the car, he had to have been part of the same group that wanted the drugs Dom stored in the front seats of the Rav.
Are the suits from yesterday and the coverall guys from the same group?
Maybe?
Are the suits in the black sedan?
That's more likely. Great, I think I'm in the middle of some drug war.
I have money, maybe I can pay one of the truck drivers to take me the fifteen miles to Ft. Lauderdale.
There, I have a plan. Now I have to figure out how to get out of here without being abducted or killed. I open the front pocket of my backpack up and put a few hundred dollars in the pocket of my jean shorts. Once I zip up the backpack and secure the straps over my shoulders, I take out the gun currently in the waistband of my shorts. Making sure the safety is off, I ready it in my hands.
I glance at the timer. Eight minutes left. I turn off the shower and open the door a crack. I look both directions and spot an exit down the hallway and make a run for it until I'm tugged backward by my backpack.
A gloved hand clamps over my mouth. I struggle and try to get a good shot at his leg but he's strong and easily disarms me with his other hand. I'm pulled into the private bathroom I just left and pressed against the wall. I bite hard on the gloved hand. My captor curses but his hand remains covering my mouth.
There's something familiar about the way he said, "Fuck."
I bite harder into the gloved hand.
"Dammit, Elena!"
His arms release me and I take a big breath. When I catch my breath, I turn toward him. Damon's wearing a white tee beneath a leather jacket and dark wash jeans. His dark locks are mussed and wild.
He takes his glove off and examines the bite mark. Baby.
"You scared the shit out of me!" I yell.
His head shoots up and eyes that look like they haven't slept in days, glare at me. He looks murderous and scary and at this moment, I see someone I haven't seen in awhile: the Prince of Darkness. Injured finger forgotten, he takes a steady and sure stride toward me.
Oh, shit. I'm fucked.
"I scared the shit out of you?" He utters, his voice barely above a whisper. Deathly calm. "You ditched Santiago and Malohi during a fire drill, then you left a message saying that you were going on some mission for a psychopath that's obsessed with you and then I can't get ahold of you at all! Do you know how many people I had to put on finding you?"
"I didn't ask you to follow me!" I meet his anger by stepping forward. "I was doing just fine!"
He takes another step forward, backing me against the tile wall. "Do you know how I ended up finding you?"
Heat and anger radiates off him in ripples. With his square jaw, Roman nose, and high cheekbones, he could be a statue found in any museum. Pure stone and beneath that, rage and desire. He licks his lips slightly, and takes off my hat and sunglasses, tossing them without a care to the floor. He tugs the strap of my backpack and pulls it off of me. His head lowered so it's almost touching mine, he slowly unzips my hoodie. "Damon…" I let out in an exhale. "We don't have time for whatever this is. We need to go."
"We have time," he states.
Sure hands reach into my hoodie and under my tank. With his head lowered, he repeats his words in a desperate, strangled whisper. "Do you know how I ended up finding you?"
His fingers dance around the hem of my shorts. My body bows toward him and a flush travels through my body, radiating heat, and desire.
"Answer me."
My eyes are focused on what his hands are doing to me. Watching them mold me into a wanton puppet. His for the taking. I can't remember what he asked so I shake my head.
"Unbutton your shorts."
I shake my head again.
Long, calloused fingers dance up my shirt and beneath my breasts. I moan and feel my cheeks heat. Now's not the time to be feeling lusty over Damon. But his hands do things.
"Do. It." He hisses, flipping out the cups of my bra and palming my breast with one hand while the other falls to my ass and squeezes.
A crashing noise echoes from outside the bathroom. Snapping out of the spell he so easily puts me under, I push him off me and slap him. Caught off guard, Damon stumbles backward.
"You can't just barge into my life and insist I do what you say," I shout, pointing my finger all over the place.
He stalks forward. "A shoot out at some mall in Macon, Georgia," he yells back. "Security footage of you busting through an exit. That's how I found you. Don't think I didn't notice the bullet holes in your car."
I push him away from me but he doesn't budge, instead, his hands find the button of my jean shorts. I grab him by the wrists and try to push him away, but with my arm still being sore, my attempts are a joke. "You are an ass! I. AM. FINE!"
His large hand wraps around my throat, he pushes me against the wall in a possessive and manic grip. It doesn't really hurt, but it definitely makes me rub my thighs together. He catches me and I scowl at his dark smirk.
Tilting my head up, he glares at me. "You could've died. You may have no regard for your life, but I do."
Damon's lips crash on mine. Still pissed, I keep my lips clamped shut and don't kiss back. However, he's unrelenting and I don't last long, especially when his hand drops from my neck and dips into my panties and massages my slit with two of his fingers. Not quite giving me what I need but doing enough to get me to bend to his will and hump his hand. It's damn annoying.
I break our consuming kiss to lean my head into the crook of his neck to take a breath. Damon doesn't stop, he continues to mark every inch of me with his mouth. "More," I breathed into his clavicle. He smells so good; one-hundred percent pure man and also gun powder.
My shorts and panties are somehow across the bathroom. Damon's leather jacket and gloves lay on top of them. My gun is in the sink. It's such a bizarre scene but for some reason, it feels like us. We're messy and angry and complicated and I don't think we'll ever not be.
I'm on the edge about to fall over, biting into his shirt. He drops his hand. I cry out in frustration and move my hand to my clit to finish the job he won't but he doesn't let me.
He presses me up against the wall and distracts me by pressing his lips to mine. His tongue slides against mine and I suck on it, earning a groan of satisfaction from him. Then he takes a step back and flips me around so I'm facing the wall. The sound of a belt buckle being undone and a zipper coming down have me panting with anticipation.
"Are you going to fuck me or not?"
His chest blankets my back and I feel his cock slide against my ass and then glide along my slit. "Bad girls don't get to come," he hisses in my ear. "I don't think you deserve my cock."
Slowly he trails his hot member until the head touches my clit. He grabs my hips and continues to slowly slide his cock back and forth without penetration. One of his hands reaches around my hips and pinches my clit. I scream out, again on the edge. I just need a little more. I move my ass toward him, prompting him to penetrate me. "Fucking finish the job," I shout. "I'm going crazy."
With my words, he withdraws. I feel cool air on my backside. Again, driven to the edge and abandoned. My head rests on the cool tile while I wait for my breathing to calm. I hear a grunt and the unmistakable sound of…
I turn my head. Damon is standing behind me rubbing his cock, his brow furrowed staring at me with my palms on the wall, naked from the waist down. I watch his slow ministrations, back and forth of his hand working his cock in expert strokes, getting off on my ass. The action, so dirty and degrading makes me ache with a need I've never felt before.
His grey eyes catch me staring. "Turn around and keep your palms on the wall or you won't get to finish."
My head snaps back to the wall. "Good girl," he chuckles darkly.
"Please, Damon."
"Please, what?"
"I need you," I whine. God, I sound pathetic.
With those words, I feel his release on my backside. His hand massages it into my ass and then slaps my ass. He does it again and again then pulls my hips to him. He leans over and hisses in my ear. "Are you going to shut me out again?"
"Probably," I mutter, glutton for punishment.
That earns me another slap. I groan. Jesus, why does this feel so good?
"Try again." His voice is husky and controlled, his hand slides into my slit. I release a slow moan. "You're soaked."
Dammit. I can feel him doing it again; he's going to leave me here, shaking from built-up tension.
"I won't shut you out," I breathe into the cream-colored tile.
He sweetly kisses me right below my ear. "That's good, baby."
Then he enters me with a punishing thrust.
"Oh, God," I moan, he's so deep, I feel him everywhere.
Damon slowly and luxuriously pulls out and then stops. "You're not leaving me, ever again."
"What?" I gasp, confused.
"Say it," he demands.
"No!" He's being unreasonable.
Painfully slowly, he thrusts the head of his cock in and holds it there. I lean back, trying to rock into him but his strong hands hold my hips still. "Say it."
I close my eyes. This is more painful than the gunshot wound hidden beneath my sweatshirt. Thank god, Damon seems to be a man sexually possessed and hasn't seen the bandage. He moves forward slightly, intensifying the burning ache. "Just let me come, please, Damon."
"Say it," he grits out, slapping my ass. Hard.
When I don't say anything, he starts to pull out again. "Fuck, fine!"
He pauses, waiting.
I hesitate for one second and that earns me another spank.
"I- wonleaveougain," I rush out so quickly, I'm surprised he understood what I said.
Holding my hip he slams into me, hitting all the right spots. I brace myself against the wall, panting. "Oh, God."
"Say it again," he orders, digging his fingers into my hip.
"I won't leave you again."
"Damn right," he says, turning my head so he can devour my mouth like he's devouring every other part of me. Mind and soul, I am focused on him. His touch. His soft lips. The way he leans his forehead on mine when he needs to take a breath. The possessive way he squeezes my hips to steady me. His frantic thrusts.
Damon reaches around me using his fingers, he uses my arousal as a lubricant to massage my clit. I come within seconds of contact. An animalistic scream of satisfaction escapes me. He withdraws and twists me around so my back is splayed on the wall. With his mouth fused to mine, he wraps my legs around him so he can hit spots deep within me. His thrusts become more hurried and frantic until I feel his release. He massages my clit again and I come again, with him.
"Jesus, you're milking my cock," he mutters into the crook of my neck.
I sigh because that's all I can do. I am spent.
He stays like that, blanketing me against the wall, with my legs wrapped around him and his hands pressed up against the tile. "You can't do that again," he says.
"I know," I breathed. He's right, I was being reckless and stupid.
Damon lifts his head up slowly, grazing his nose along my jaw before giving me the sweetest of sweet kisses. So soft and tender. I open my mouth to him and I feel him harden. Jesus, again?
He slowly rocks into me. We may be in a very clean bathroom that charges by the minute, Damon fucks me as he would at home- with everything he has. It's the only time he gives me all of himself when he's consumed with possessing me.
His lips don't leave mine while he slowly thrusts in and out in long languid motions until I feel myself fall over the edge with him. "Damon," I cry into his mouth.
"I know, baby," he says, kissing me through both our releases.
When our heart rates have returned to a somewhat normal beat, he grabs me by the hips and helps me down. Then he leans over and presses his lips to my forehead. "Let me take care of you."
Damon slowly removes my sweatshirt but when his eyes catch the bandage, he groans. However, he doesn't say anything. He kisses my arm right above the bandage and then continues to take off my tank and unhook my bra. Then he takes his own shirt and wraps it around my wound to protect it from water. When we're both undressed, he scoops me up and carries me into the shower.
Keeping my right arm away from the water, Damon cleans me like I'm something precious. I groan when he massages shampoo into my hair. I let out a contented sigh and lean into him. "Dip your head back," he instructs.
Damon carefully rinses my hair, kisses me on the neck, and whispers that I smell good. Then he slaps my butt and tells me to get out. I giggle. I've been shot at more times than I'd like to count in the past twenty-four hours and I'm giggling.
We don't have towels, so I use my discarded sweatshirt to dry myself off and put my clothes back on. I find a comb in my bag and dry my hair with the built-in hairdryer. After turning off the shower, Damon uses my sweatshirt to dry off his glorious body and puts on his jeans. He walks over to me and unties his shirt from around my arm. His fingers graze the bandage, inspecting the wound. "You're going to tell me about that."
He checks the silencer on his gun before putting it in the back of his jeans. puts his gun in the back of his jeans before putting his jacket back on, he puts on his leather jacket, and hands me my gun, still sitting in the sink. "You may need this again."
I turn on the safety and dump it in the front pocket of my backpack. I need a break from guns, but if I need it like Damon says I might, I can get to it. I put my cap and sunglasses on, but throw the now wet sweatshirt away while Damon puts on his shoes.
"How are we leaving?"
"You're going to follow close behind me."
"Not much of a plan," I mutter.
"You'll be fine."
Is the black sedan still there, or did the guys follow the Rav 4 Domenico wants me to deliver? That's what I was hoping for by hiding out in the bathroom. Maybe Damon was too which is why he did such a great job of helping me pass the time.
And what about the police? Surely the store would've called them to report a shooting, but as I follow Damon out of the private bathroom, it seems like it's business as usual. Damon even spends time perusing the aisles getting us snacks and drinks.
The cashier rings up out chips, candy, and bottles of water and gives Damon a friendly nod. "Thanks for earlier, man."
Damon smirks. "No problem."
Huh?
The cashier bags up our items and doesn't charge us as a thank you to Damon for whatever he did.
I walk out of the store absolutely dumbstruck but am brought right back to reality when I spot the black sedan still parked. "Damon!" I hiss.
But Damon ignores me, walks right to the black sedan, and opens the passenger door for me. "You were the one following me?"
He shrugs. "You wouldn't pull over or stop, how was I going to tell you?"
"If I'd have known it was you," I point to the area around us. "None of this would've happened."
"Get in the car, Elena."
I search for the Rav 4, maybe it's still there and I can ditch Damon.
"I don't mind making you get in this car."
I roll my eyes and shuffle toward him. The Rav is gone and so is the Ford F150.
I plop in the passenger seat. Damon reaches over and snaps in the seatbelt, then tugs on the strap before walking around and getting the driver's side. He takes out a bottle of water, opens it, and gives it to me, then does the same for himself. We sit in silence for a few minutes.
"Explain."
I take a deep breath and tell him about being called to the principal's office and finding Domenico there. I tell him about the bribe he offered Principal Hale. I explain the car waiting for me in the back of the school and asking Dom to pull the fire alarm. I tell him about taking out all the trackers and cameras and missing one. When I explain parking in Macon and stripping the car to find out what Dom was having me deliver, he smirks.
"What did you find?"
"A flash drive."
"This was at the mall, right?"
I nod. "I went inside to buy a computer and phone."
"And you didn't think to call me?" He doesn't seem angry but almost there.
"I thought about it," I reply honestly.
He seems to let whatever anger he had go. "What was on the flash drive?"
"I'll get to that later."
Oh, God. How is he going to react when he finds out I'm seventeen?
I glance at Damon, who's taking another sip of water and has proceeded to open up a bag of peanut M & M's. He pops one in his mouth while checking our surroundings. He won't care.
"Continue," he orders, popping another M & M in his mouth and placing a handful in my outstretched palm. I munch on one before explaining the guys that followed me through the mall and the subsequent shoot out in the parking garage.
"Is that how you got shot?"
"When I drove away," I explain. "Right before driving through the parking barrier."
"Did you go to the hospital?"
I'm more worried about this part of the story than anything else.
"No, when I looked at the flash drive, I saw bank statements, ledgers, and delivery times. I thought he wanted me to deliver information hidden in the car. So once I got on the highway and knew I wasn't being followed, I called Domenico and told him I wouldn't deliver the car unless he gave me the letters and papers Grayson left me. He arranged for a doctor to meet me in Jacksonville where I thought he'd deliver the items."
"He arranged for a doctor to see you?"
I don't like the way he emphasized "he" but I continue. "Yes, and then he told me that Grayson's papers were put on the flash drive, hidden in a folder. The flash drive was a fake-out."
"How so?"
"The ledgers and everything are old or fake. The person that's supposed to meet me in Miami was supposed to hand the flash drive over to me, but I discovered it early. Moretti explained that I was delivering his product sewn into the front seats."
"But the car is gone. One of the guys following you drove off in it before we could get to him," he explains.
"What happened to the other guy?"
"Don't worry about it."
Is that why he kept me in that bathroom for so long, to keep me distracted while the scene was being cleaned up by the owner?
"You smelled like gun powder."
He shrugs. "He tried to kill you."
I nod in understanding. This is Florida, after all. If the situation was reversed, I can't say I'd do anything different.
"What was on the flash drive?" I hesitate. "I know you looked at it."
Gives You Hell, by The All-American Rejects plays from my bag.
"What's that?"
I reach in the bag, take out my phone, and answer. "What?"
"That is no way to greet me, Ms. Gilbert."
Damon takes the phone out of my hands and puts it on speaker. I place my index finger on my lips and then make a slashing motion across my throat. In other words, he better not freaking say a word.
"Mr. Moretti, how may I help you this fine afternoon?" I say in my sweetest voice.
I hear him clear his throat. "Better, Ms. Gilbert. I would like to know where you are going in my car."
The GPS on the Rav must still be on.
"There was a complication."
"I do not like complications. There have already been too many complications."
"Mr. Moretti, I have no doubt that my death would be an even greater complication for you."
"Explain."
"I was carjacked at a gas station."
"If my product is not secure, I will have to assume you will no longer be an asset, you will be a liability. You do not want to be a liability, Ms. Gilbert."
Damon has taken out his gun and looks like he wants to shoot the phone, which would really suck because it's new and pretty.
"I have your product, Domenico. Threaten me again and I'll scatter it in the Atlantic Ocean and go to the police with all the information I have on you," I say. Damon gives me a sever look but I roll my eyes. He doesn't know how Dom and I operate. This conversation is pretty much how all our conversations go.
"I do not think they would believe a porn star, Ms. Gilbert," he throws out casually. "Deliver my product to the address I am sending you."
Porn star? What's he talking about?
"I'm guessing the cartel has your car."
"They have ditched it, which is why I called you. You are to deliver the product alone. My contact is expecting you and no one else. If there is someone else there, he will see it as a threat and shoot you on sight. The lack of the car is an added complication, so the location and time of rendezvous have changed from earlier."
I look at Damon, who looks crazed with his gun in hand and the other white-knuckling the wheel of the car. He won't even look at me, he's just staring straight ahead. I should really jump out of the car and take my chances hitchhiking.
"Fine," I say.
"This is a very important delivery, Ms. Gilbert. Do not fail."
He hangs up. I look at the address and time he sent me then map it while Damon broods.
"I don't like this, Elena."
"I don't like it either. Blame Miranda for literally selling me out. Take your anger out on her, not me."
"I think you like it," he says.
"What?"
Damon places the gun in a holster underneath his seat. He doesn't explain his comment, instead, he starts the car and pulls out of the gas station.
After a few minutes of being on the road, I have to ask. "Why do you think Moretti said I'm a porn star?"