20. You Said Where?

Chapter 20

You Said Where?

HUNTER

B ringing Gage Clayton here to work has been a strategic decision. The man has been with me for years. I picked him up from the streets. He used to be my runner, somebody I trusted to dispose of bodies and do all those sorts of tasks that required discretion. But the man has a more useful skill of getting people to talk to him, which is why I regularly move him through all the country-wide branches of my operations. With the current situation brewing in LA and Steve's betrayal, I brought him here because he comes off as friendly and the right guy to act as my eyes and ears.

It's been several days since Megan returned to work, and I'm not surprised to see a massive shift in the work environment because of it. She has a very personal touch with both coworkers and customers alike. Although she and Gage have worked together for just a few days, he has been singing his praises of her. It still takes me aback that this woman, who is so combative with me at every turn, is so well-liked by the employees and patrons of the bar.

Since I moved her into the apartment a few floors down, she hasn't swiped her claws at me for a while. In fact, she's been oddly polite, albeit a little wary around me, but I've got to admit, I've been avoiding her as well. If I'm Megan's Superman, she is my kryptonite. Nothing good can come from us spending more time around each other than we need to.

Having said that, my eyes are still glued to her. I can't help but watch her moving through the customers toward where the female bartender she hired, Diana, is working. I notice how Diana smiles as Megan converses with her. However, the look on her face when Megan turns her back catches my attention. It's a cold look of distaste. Megan doesn't see it because she's already walking away, but I do, and I tuck it away in the back of my mind to deal with later.

As I watch Megan work her magic through the crowd of grinding and writhing bodies on the dance floor, I think about the farfetched possibility of my sister being alive, and then I recall the events of that night. I remember it like it was yesterday, although I wish I didn't.

Johnathan had been with me, holding me back from running inside the small apartment, which had been ablaze. The men who set the fire dragged us away and threw mementos of my mother and sister at my feet, describing to me in explicit detail how they had tortured them before setting the fire and watching them burn.

It was the cruelest tale any human being ever told.

What kind of scum are capable of killing a child?

But now I'm wondering if it's possible that they lied.

What if the screams I heard were from someone else? What if my mother and sister escaped? What if they were never inside, to begin with?

I'm quick to discard the thought, though. I'm sure that my mother would have found a way to track me down if she had escaped, plus our sweet Lena had only been three years old when this happened. She wouldn't have survived a life on the run and on the streets.

When I returned to the burnt building, it had been flattened to the ground, and I wasn't able to find any remains of them. The authorities were clearly bought off and ruled it an accidental fire. So, barely a man myself, all I had been left with was the knowledge that my family had been tortured and murdered because of me.

I touch the glass, not knowing what to do with the flickering ember of hope. Now that I know that Johnathan is somewhere close, it's going to be easier to find him. The streets of Los Angeles are my turf, and he'll make a mistake eventually. Finding him shouldn't be too hard because we're bound to sniff out the stink of someone so rotten.

The sound of the door opening makes me look up, and I notice Megan's startled expression when she sees me. She was hoping to avoid me the rest of the night, but I think we need to finally end this cold war. It's silly.

"Sorry, I thought this was empty," she says.

She's backing out of the room and about to close the door when I call out, "Wait, come in."

She hesitates, and I can tell that coming in here is one of the last things she wants to do, but I'm finding that no matter how good an idea it may be for us both, I don't like it when she avoids me.

"I really have to go."

"Come in and close the door, Megan."

She looks torn, and I narrow my gaze. "If you try to run, I'll just throw you over my shoulder and carry you inside, and I won't care who sees it."

She quickly enters, and I almost laugh.

Megan looks pretty tonight in her soft sky-blue blouse and black pencil skirt. She's wearing natural makeup, which pleases me, too, especially because it means that her bruises no longer show that much.

"Take a seat," I order.

"Why?" she gripes. "I have to get back to the floor."

"Sit," I point to the seat.

"Seriously, Mr. Middleton, I have work to do."

"Megan," I give her a steady look, and she reluctantly slips into the seat. "And I thought I told you to call me Hunter."

"You said to call you that outside of work, and last time I checked, we were at work."

She places her hands on her hips to emphasize her point.

Damn, those luscious hips.

"Gosh, you're so bossy," she complains under her breath, and I narrow my eyes.

"I am your boss."

"And you never let me forget it."

"Are you having any problems with any of the staff?"

"What?" Her head jerks up. "No, everything is fine."

"What about the apartment?"

"What about it?" she asks carefully.

"Is it comfortable? Are you enjoying it?"

"Yes, and yes."

"The roommate, too?"

"Yep."

I know that my questions are vague, but I'm feeling restless right now. All these thoughts about my mom and sister have me off-kilter, and for some reason, Megan's presence is calming. I don't like that she feels the need to avoid me, and I consider what I need to do to change that.

"What happened to that class of yours? The one for which you drew my picture. Did you get a grade yet?"

I see her reflection go still, and a strange expression crosses her face, "I don't know yet."

"Now, why don't I believe you?"

She's silent.

"Tell me what happened."

"It's stupid," she mutters, but I can see the anger flashing behind her eyes.

"Megan-"

"Look," she takes a deep breath. "I don't want to talk about it if you don't mind. Work is work, and school is school, and I'd like to keep the two separate."

Her fingers are picking at her skirt, and I know she isn't telling me everything, but I won't press. It seems that every time I see Megan, she's under some sort of duress. Giving her the apartment had been a random act, but I also hoped that it would relieve some of the financial burdens she may be dealing with. Between paying her bills, dealing with those shitty kids she goes to school with, and working here–she's got to be stretched thin. I remember being young, broke, and struggling. It sucks.

I look at her gorgeous face and ask myself if she's ever experienced any pure joy at all. I wonder if she's ever just gotten on a plane and traveled. Yet even as I ruminate over that, I already know the answer.

She hasn't.

"Go home and pack an overnight bag," I blurt out.

"What?" She blinks at me.

"The weekend is about to begin. You don't have any classes, do you?"

She shakes her head, confused.

"Good." I tuck my hands in my pockets. "After your shift ends, I'll take you home, and I want you to pack an overnight bag. Just pack a few essentials, nothing more. You won't need much."

"And where am I going?" she asks mockingly as if my request isn't serious.

"A place that every art student like yourself should visit."

"And where's that?"

"Paris, we're flying out to Paris tonight."

The stupefied expression on her face is well worth it.

"Wait, what?"