The Mercenary Next Door (Rogues and Rescuers Book 2), page 23
Mason chanced a glance at Laila. She wasn’t even looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on Joseph, her face nearly bloodless.
Shoving her ex away like the piece of trash he was, Mason roughly let him go, transferring his now-gentled hold to Laila. Not wanting her to spend another second in her abuser’s presence, he began to usher her out.
“Wait, his girl?” Joseph stared at Laila with lost puppy-dog eyes. It made Mason want to kick him.
But Laila twisted in his arms. “Joseph, tell them the truth about Jasmine. Tell them how she really died. She deserves that.”
Her voice shook, but her conviction—the sheer emotion—cut through the air like a knife. Even the lawyer shut up.
Mason had her out the door before anyone could reply.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mason’s face was grim as they exited via the police station’s main entrance.
“I didn’t interrupt a necessary confrontation, did I? You’re not going to be talking to a therapist someday about how I ruined your one chance at closure?”
“I’ll let you know when I calm down,” Laila said, reaching out to brace herself on his arm.
Her pulse pounded, and her legs were so weak she was having trouble standing. Breathing hard, she bent, instinct making her put her head between her knees.
Swearing, Mason picked her up, ushering her to a bench just to the left of the doors.
His arms went around her as she fought to regain her composure. Laila squeezed his biceps, her head pressed to his chest. But despite his attempts at comfort, she was still trembling.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a few minutes. “I had no idea I was going to fall apart like this. Even though I had no plans to see him, I thought I was prepared. I was just fooling myself.”
Laila had pictured herself confronting Joseph a million times. In her imagination, she had been brave and aggressive, getting in his face and slapping the shit out of him. The reality had been so different. Just the sight of him had knocked the breath from her lungs. She had felt small and violated all over again.
The fact she’d found her voice and gotten any words out was a victory, she told herself. But her reaction now that he was out of sight—the way she was clinging to Mason—made her feel weak and pathetic.
Mason disagreed. “Do you know what I saw? I saw a strong, brilliant, and beautiful woman confront her abuser. And you made the most of it—telling him to do the right thing for Jasmine when you could have focused on what he did to you. I wouldn’t have blamed you. Had it been me, I wouldn’t have had the wherewithal or selflessness to say anything like you just did. I would have just started swearing and not stopped.”
Her lips quirked in a wan smile. “Had you been in my shoes, you would have defended yourself when he tried to hurt you—and you would have wiped the floor with him…although, honestly, I’m having a lot of trouble seeing you two as a couple. You’re not really each other’s type.”
Snorting softly, Mason pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Why don’t we get the hell out of here so you can have a bubble bath and I can beat the hell out of the punching bag I have in the garage?”
“That sounds like a good plan, but I have a better one.”
Closing her eyes, Laila leaned against his chest. She shut out the police station, letting the sun and the warmth of Mason’s embrace warm her chilled bones. With a voice that grew in strength and firmness, she detailed a scheme that involved candles and her decadent hot fudge sauce, followed by even hotter sex in the shower.
Mason’s hand gripped the back of Laila’s neck reflexively. It took him a minute to find his tongue. “You are the most amazing fucking woman in the world. You know that, right?”
Laila’s chin jutted out. “Because I want to lick chocolate off your naked body? Mason, honey, there isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t want to do that.”
“She’s right about that!”
Mason jerked. A middle-aged woman in a meter maid uniform at the edge of the parking lot grinned at him and gave Laila a thumbs-up before getting into her little cart and driving away.
Laila giggled.
He cleared his throat, his cheeks flaming. “What I meant to say is that I know it can’t have been easy, trusting a man again after what happened with that asshole,” he said, jerking his thumb behind him to indicate the station and its current occupant.
Silano better not let that worm wriggle off the hook.
“You make it easy,” Laila said, those golden-brown eyes seeing right through him to capture his soul. “I trust you with my life.”
“Good, because I want all of it—the next eighty years at least.”
Her brow puckered. “So we are planning on living past the century mark? Together?”
“Damn straight we are.” He laughed until Laila smiled. “And you know what?”
“What?” Laila asked, her heart in her eyes.
“It won’t be long enough—I’m going to love you for the rest of our lives and into the whatever comes after.”
Despite the emotional rollercoaster of their day, Mason felt like he was on top of the world. The scene in the police station had gotten ugly at the end, but it was over. Plus, Laila had handled seeing her ex with grace and strength. They still had some legal hurdles to overcome, but whatever happened, they would face them together.
Laila’s fingers twined in his filled him with a sense of rightness. It wrapped around him like a second skin. Forget the high after a successful op—all he needed to feel fucking invincible was to hold his girl’s hand.
Smugly self-satisfied and nearly bursting with pride in the woman at his side, he escorted her across the street. Since the lot around the station was reserved for squad cars and parking enforcement vehicles, Mason had parked the Mustang on a side street in a metered slot a few blocks down. They took their time, both aware on some level that this was it—they were about to start their life together.
When they passed a shop window full of women’s designer clothes, he tugged Laila closer to it, pointing to a red number that was both elegant and sexy. She laughed when he told her it would be perfect on her. She tugged him away after catching sight of the price tag hanging from the sleeve, but Mason made a mental note. He had to take Laila shopping and out to dinner…do normal couple things their history and circumstances had kept them from doing. They were overdue for some fun.
It took them nearly twenty minutes to make it down two blocks. The car was across the street. He led Laila into the street when the light changed, and that was when he heard it—an engine accelerating instead of slowing down.
The black SUV had tinted windows, and it had been specially modified. Mason recognized it as a high-end model favored by drug lords and politicians across the country.
He processed that in the split second he had to react.
Mason shouted a warning to Laila, pivoting and throwing himself at her, wrenching back toward the curb they had just stepped off. There was the impact of his much larger body against her small one, and then they were flying.
Instinctively rolling, he managed to twist in midair, so they crashed down with him on the bottom. The impact knocked the wind out of him twice, once when he hit the ground and again a second or two later when Laila landed flat against his chest. But his shoulders felt the difference—this wasn’t the blacktop of the road, he had made it to the sidewalk. Gasping in pain and relief, he rolled and rolled until they hit something—the wall of the building on the corner.
“Are you okay?” he asked Laila, his voice half an octave higher than normal.
Dazed, she shook her head. “What happened?”
He started to pull them up, rearing back to shake off the hand of a bystander. Belatedly realizing the man was just trying to help, he apologized, but he pulled Laila behind him anyway. Scanning for additional threats, he did a rapid assessment.
“Get inside there. Call Silano!” He pointed at the door a few feet away—a chain drugstore.
“I’ll be right back,” he yelled, running in the direction the SUV had taken. It was almost four in the afternoon. There was too much traffic for the driver to have made a quick getaway.
And it hadn’t. I can fucking hear it.
Legs pumping, Mason sprinted across the street, barreling down the block full tilt. The SUV turned at the corner, and Mason leaped over a chain that separated a parking lot from the sidewalk. Weaving through the cars, he kept running, determined to cut through it.
At the corner, he ran around a dumpster, crashing into a trash can. He fell into the sidewalk, scraping the skin of his palms, but he didn’t stop to think. Mason acted.
Training kicking in, he rolled to his feet, grabbing the trash can lid as he went.
The SUV plowed through the intersection, blasting through a red light. It was getting too big a lead.
An image of Laila’s face flashed through his head as he threw the lid, spinning it like an Olympian discus thrower. He hadn’t consciously aimed through the window, but it sailed through anyway.
Mason didn’t know if it hit the driver or merely blocked his view, but the result was the same. The SUV veered sharply to the right—sending it straight into the heavy metal base of a streetlamp.
The sound of crumpled steel and breaking glass rent the air. The SUV’s horn blared. Inside, he could see someone flailing behind the bright white of the deployed airbag.
He also caught a glimpse of something else his training had taught him to search for—the cold glint of a gun. The driver held it as he tried to get out from behind the partially deflated airbag.
Fuck. Mason had to disarm the assailant before the man could get out of the car. The surrounding office buildings were emptying, and the sidewalks were filling up with office workers and lookie-loos coming to check out the accident.
Too much collateral damage.
He tensed, preparing to launch himself into the vehicle, when a small hand grabbed his arm.
“Here!” He spun on his heel to see Laila holding something out to him.
“Laila.” The one word held everything—equal parts fear for her mixed with his love and intense frustration she hadn’t listened to him. How dare she put herself in danger?
Turning back to the SUV, he threw open the door, grabbing the gunman’s arm and bringing his own down on it with enough force to break a bone.
The dark-haired assailant screamed as Mason hauled him out into the ground with a shout. “Laila, get back!”
“Oh my God, it’s Oscar.”
“What?”
“Oscar Johansen—he’s Bryce’s dad.”
Of course. The fixer.
“Get Silano,” he gritted out as he kneeled on Oscar’s lower back, holding him down without crushing his lungs, aware that, despite his anger, he needed the fucker to talk.
Laila held up her phone, an active call displayed on the screen. “Don’t worry. She’s on her way.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Laila was as mad at Mason as he appeared to be with her. How could he think she was going to just hide in a damn drugstore while he ran after the bad guy, unarmed?
Okay, so he hadn’t needed her stun gun. She’d never seen anyone do a karate chop in real life, and it had been impressive as hell. Laila had heard Oscar’s bone snap, and though the sound made her wince in retrospect, she barely registered it at the time. The scream that had followed had caught and kept all of her attention.
That Mason had executed the move in the tight confines of the SUV, generating enough force to break a bone, had amazed the EMTs and the cops who came with Silano to make the arrest.
Laila paused, remembering her gleeful grin as the detective caught sight of Oscar Johansen laid out on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back like a gift Mason was presenting to her.
“Christmas came early,” she declared, repeatedly slapping Mason on the back.
The detective had wanted to hug him, Laila knew, but the woman had restrained herself.
Can’t say I blame her, Laila thought, peeking at Mason from the corner of her eye. He was digging under a cabinet, his sculpted derriere within touching distance. But Laila kept her hands at her sides, mostly because he was mumbling about needing to check her out.
He rose a minute later with a canvas first-aid kit in his hand.
“Come over here,” he said gruffly.
Laila crossed her arms. “No.”
Mason stepped back, eyes flaring. “You could have cuts and bruises. I need to check you out.”
Standing as straight as she could, Laila held out her hand. “Only if I check you out first,” she said, gesturing for the kit.
Mason scowled at her. “What?”
She pointed at his scraped hands. “You’re hurt worse than me.”
“Laila—” he began.
She held up a hand. “I won’t let you until I see your hands.”
Growling something under his breath, he handed the kit over. “I will comply,” he said primly. “But after this, I expect full cooperation.”
“We have a deal,” she said with an equally formal inclination of her head, gesturing for him to take a seat on the couch.
Once he was seated, she opened the bag, setting the disinfectant, antibiotic ointment, and bandages on the coffee table. Being extra gentle, she cleaned his scrapes, blowing on the disinfectant she applied. When she looked up, his eyes were fixed on her face, his expression warm now.
The muscles in her neck relaxed, making her realize just how much tension she had been carrying since their almost-silent car ride home. I won’t be tense next time, she vowed.
There would be other occasions when she and Mason argued, even fought. She never had to be afraid of him when he was angry. Her brain had known that before, but her body needed a little more convincing. That would come with time, and they were going to have lots of it. Nobody—not Joseph or Franklin or fucking Oscar Johansen—was going to take it away from her—from them.
“I just flashed forward to our future, seeing you kissing our kid’s booboos and making them better.”
The soft words clashed with her militant mindset, making her crumble into a mushy pile of goo.
“I will always try to protect you,” he swore as she wrapped a white bandage around his hands, just enough to cover the scrapes while leaving him with full mobility. He ended up looking like a boxer getting ready for a bout.
“I know that,” she said, pressing a kiss to his wrist. “But you need to get used to me protecting you, too.”
“If you promise me the next time won’t involve you running out in the open when there is a gunman around, then yes,” he said, the words clipped despite his obvious effort to let go of his anger.
Pretending she hadn’t caught his tone, she stood. “I trust you have no other injuries I need to examine?” she asked in her most professional how-may-I-serve-you voice, the one she saved for Gardullo’s high-end customers.
The corner of his mouth quirked, his annoyance fading. He knew she was teasing him. “No.”
“Good.”
Laila pulled her shirt over her head.
Mason’s head jerked back, his eyes fastened on her breasts, which were lovingly cupped in the dusty-rose lace bra she’d found on sale.
When she undid the fastening of her jeans, shimmying out to reveal the matching pink panties, Mason’s lips parted, his hands reaching out reflexively to claw the air as if he couldn’t help himself.
Laila stepped into his outstretched hands. “You needed to take a good look,” she said, pitching her voice low.
“Holy hell.” His voice was all gruff and gravel. It sent a frisson of anticipation across her skin, making private places tingle.
Shedding her bra with more haste than grace, she took his hands, putting them on the sides of her breasts. She shivered as he cupped her, the bandages abrading her nipples.
Putting her hands over his, she slid them down her waist to the elastic of her panties. Guiding him, she used his hands to push them down. Stepping out of the lace, Laila moved to straddle Mason, but he held her up. “Wait.”
He stood and yanked at his clothing, setting what had to be a world record for stripping. Naked, he crashed back on the couch, pulling her on top of him with hot, hungry hands.
Laila closed her eyes, her head falling back to expose the vulnerable line of her neck. Mason’s mouth flamed up and down the tender skin, liquifying her bones.
Mason’s hands closed on either side of her face. His head drew back to stare into her eyes. “No matter how much of you I get, I always want more.”
His breath fanned over her face, the bite of peppermint and the cedar of the soap he used like a drug to her senses.
Her mouth took his, slanting over his lips, drinking him deeply. Pushing away, she moved down his chest, kissing and licking her way down his body.
She pushed his thighs apart, making room for herself before grasping his cock in her hands. His intake of breath was sharp. Mason’s entire body jerked under her firm grasp.
“You’re so thick,” she said, pressing a kiss to the side of his rigid organ. “I sometimes wonder how we fit so well, but we do.”
Another kiss, this one open-mouthed. A hiss escaped Mason’s lips.
“I never thought I would enjoy this,” she said, letting the flat of her tongue stroke his length. “But with you, I want it. I want to consume you, take you inside me every way I possibly can.”
Mason’s hands buried in her hair as she sucked the tip into her mouth. She kept him there, moving her tongue around the sensitive rim of the flared head. And then he was moving. His arousal popped out of her mouth, and she was flying through the air. Mason caught her against his body. Her back hit the couch cushion. He covered her with his body—his hair-roughened skin stroking her flushed and damp silkiness.
“I need you,” he breathed in her ear, his voice edgy and sharp with hunger. His hands pulled her legs apart, widening them for an invasion she welcomed with every fiber of her being.
