17. Elijah

Itrailed behind Luke and a small group of his friends, following at a safe distance as they made their way along the beach to the Shipwreck. The sun was setting, bathing the group in golden light, highlighting their loose limbs, their ease, their laughter.

It'd been five days since I'd last seen him. Four days back at the office, training alongside Foster, then a day to switch my sleep schedule so I could relieve Ripley of the night shift.

The first couple nights on a switched schedule always had a buzzy twilight feel to them, a combination of too much caffeine, not enough sleep, and the sense of innate wrongness that came from being awake when others were in bed.

It made me antsy. Though Ripley had explained that they'd vetted these friends a day earlier, had staked out the walking route and the bar and found nothing to be alarmed by. And it'd been quiet the whole time I was gone. No letters, no emails, no evidence of being followed.

The group paused at a stoplight, with Luke hanging off the post with one arm. His friends talked and laughed around him while he stayed silent. The fading light turned his dark hair bronze, and a curl hung over his forehead. He wore black pants, a white tank top, and a short-sleeved linen shirt patterned in reddish-orange. The ends flapped briefly in the breeze and the tank dipped low on his chest, exposing a swath of smooth skin.

He peered up at me through long lashes. It felt like touching a live wire, all sticky electricity with a neon buzz. He held my gaze for a beat too long before spinning on his heels to amble across the road.

Luke had been polite, if distracted, from the moment I'd checked in with him tonight. But I couldn't blame him. I'd snapped at him the last time we'd really spoken, accused him of being no better than his father. And while it was true that he'd purposefully put me in a shitty situation, comparing him to the man who'd starved and manipulated him felt like a low blow in retrospect.

But that didn't alleviate the gulf of differences between us. Luke would always have the power, the money, the prestige, no matter how fervently he shrugged it off. He'd always be the one holding my contract over my head—my job, my income, my career—and threatening to rip it in two.

But even as I accepted the truth of these things, my gut churned whenever I replayed our conversation on the beach. We could even make a whole weekend out of it.

The hurt in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. It was like watching a light being shut off in a distant room. But what he was suggesting had sounded so much like a date that I'd panicked. Mostly due to my own bodily reaction—a craving so deep it'd taken my breath away.

Why not make a whole fucking weekend out of it?

My mind had filled with images much too domestic with a man I was sworn to keep safe above all else. Brunch at some diner along the coast. A charming bed-and-breakfast Luke would get a kick out of. The lock I'd throw on the door so I could drag him back to bed and keep him there for hours.

We were nearing the Shipwreck, where the sounds of a happy crowd and loud dance music could be heard, even this far away. From the outside, it looked like any other dive bar you might see in a small beach town—popular in the summertime and empty in the offseason. A painted mermaid, with long red hair and a beard, held a broken-off helm in her burly, tattooed arms. Twinkle lights flashed around the door, and a few people stood with cigarettes and drinks in their hands.

One of Luke's friends cracked a joke and he laughed, tossing out the charming smile that haunted my dreams. He gave one of the women a half hug. Squeezed the hand of a tall man wearing a beanie. Called out another friend's name when he spied them from down the street, laughing as they jumped into his arms with a squeal.

I ground my molars and fought to stay focused. Assessed every entrance, noted the bouncer at the door, studied the packed bar as soon as we stepped inside. The center of the room held a small stage, and a drag queen in a hot pink wig was performing to a cheering crowd. Next to the dance floor, the long bar stretched the length of the room. A disco ball spun in the center and multicolored lights bounced off every reflective surface.

I flexed my fingers and swallowed against a mounting irritation. Irritation with my team, who'd somehow believed this tiny, tight space, with only two visible exits, was somehow safe. Irritation with Lucas, who tested my patience daily like it was a fun game. And irritation with myself, most of all, for crossing boundaries with my client when I fucking knew better.

Luke and his friends made their way to a seating area. I kept some distance toward the back, directly in Luke's line of sight, so I could monitor who was nearby at all times. I'd spoken already with tonight's bartender, informing them of the recent threats. And Luke had agreed to keep his drink choices limited to beer only, each one opened where I could see it.

He sprawled on a low couch now, one long arm slung across the back and his ankle hooked over his knee. His gaze found mine through the crowd, and he sent me a lazy grin that had my face heating in the dark room.

Two hours passed this way. I stood with my feet planted and my hands clasped while the world spun and rotated around a single point of focus.

Luke.

Bathed in multicolored light, his posture relaxed as the music changed. Drag queens performed, people trickled past. He accepted kisses on the cheek from his friends. Let himself get pulled up to dance when a song came on that he liked. Sang along with the performers, winking when they strode by to collect the cash tips he gave them.

But he was watching me too. And it wasn't just a casual perusal. His eyes raked the length of my body with a predator's arrogance, and I felt it like a caress. Gorgeous men and elegant women crowded around him, some spilling into his lap, some dancing nearby to get his attention. He shrugged off his shirt, leaving the rounded muscles of his shoulders exposed.

His forearm flexed each time he raised a bottle to his lips. And he eyed me openly. Brazenly. A dangerous lust coiled in my belly, dangerous because I knew all too well what happened when flirtation gave way to distraction. Even now, I felt the noise around me dim, felt my reflexes dull to a stupor. Luke arched an eyebrow my way—an invitation—and when I matched the gesture, he broke into a smile. Big and dazzling and brilliant. He didn't move, simply traced his lower lip with his thumb and kept his gaze leashed to mine.

Do you ever pretend you're someone else for the night and take a total stranger back to your bed?

I wasn't opposed to the idea, but it generally didn't work for me. Maybe when I was younger, when desperate groping in a darkened room at a party with a man whose name I'd never know had been fine at the time.

Luke made desperation seem appealing again, the kind that thrived in dark corners and furtive meetups. The kind that would thrive in this bar, with its small staff rooms and supply closets. I could drag him into the first private place we found. Kiss that smart mouth of his so hard he'd understand the depths of my unrelenting frustration.

I'd kiss that man until all he could do was pant and shudder. Kiss him until every teasing taunt became a plea, an ache, a craving. I'd kiss Luke Beaumont until he no longer knew his own fucking name—then I'd fall to my knees and worship him further.

I needed his fingers in my hair. Needed him using my name as a chant and a curse. God help me, I'd certainly fantasized about it enough.

Yes, Elijah. Please, Elijah. More, yes, please, more, ye?—

The buzzing of my phone shocked me from the lurid images dominating my thoughts. Shocked me so thoroughly that the sounds of the room immediately rose in volume, the dancer's movements back to regular speed, my innate sense of danger suddenly blaring like a foghorn.

The number on my screen was the one we used when something was very, very wrong, calling during a moment when I was so far past the bounds of professionalism it was a goddamn joke. I moved to a quieter corner and kept my focus glued on Luke, who had cocked his head quizzically when I did so.

"What is it?" I barked into the phone.

"Luke's account got another email," Sylvester said. "Another picture, this one of him and his friends outside the Shipwreck."

"As in only two hours ago?" I asked, all the hairs standing up on my arms.

"Yes. And a different message this time," he said. "If you won't give me what I want, I'm taking it from you."

I was already moving, pushing through the sea of people as Luke's eyes widened at my approach.

"Elijah," Sylvester said, "you gotta get him out of there. Now."