Chapter 4: Wounds of the Past
The thought was a cold stone in her chest. She extricated herself from his limbs and the damp sheets, the movement clinical. The room’s air felt greasy on her skin. She swung her legs off the bed, her back to him, and began searching for her clothes.
Her ripped shirt was a lost cause. She found his discarded t-shirt on the floor and pulled it over her head. It smelled like him—sweat, gunpowder, and that cheap motel soap. She was swimming in it.
“You’re leaving.” His voice came from the bed, flat. It wasn’t a question.
“Richard’s alone,” she said, not turning around. She located her jeans, stepping into them with stiff, efficient movements. “He’s been alone all day. With his thoughts. With the news.” She zipped them up, the sound loud in the quiet. “That’s not good.”
She felt the mattress shift as he stood. His hands landed on her shoulders from behind, his touch less demanding now, almost hesitant. He turned her around to face him. In the gloom, he looked his age, the lines around his eyes deep grooves of exhaustion.
“Hey,” he said softly. He dipped his head and kissed her, a slow, lingering pressure that tasted of salt and resignation. It was different from before—softer, a question rather than a claim.
She allowed it, her hands resting flat against his bare chest. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong under her palms.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers. “When this is over,” he whispered, his breath warm on her lips, “I’m taking you somewhere. A proper date. Somewhere with real silverware and no one shooting at us.”
Heather let out a shaky breath, a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “That’s a bold promise, Vickers.”
“I’m a bold guy.” He nuzzled the sensitive spot just below her ear, his stubble scratching pleasantly. “I want round two. Soon. Without the world ending outside.”
A shiver ran through her, one she couldn’t fully blame on the cool air. It was the promise, the normalcy of it, that felt more dangerous than any gun. She tilted her head, giving him better access. “You can barely walk.”
“I’ll recover.” His hands slid down from her shoulders, over the loose fabric of the t-shirt. They cupped the full weight of her ass through the cotton, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles. She didn’t stop him. A reluctant, familiar heat bloomed low in her belly, a traitorous response to his touch.
She placed her hands over his, stilling them. “Michael.” His name was a warning, and a farewell.
He sighed, the sound ragged. He leaned in and captured her mouth one last time. This kiss was soft, almost chaste, a silent apology for things he couldn’t say. She kissed him back, a brief, gentle press of lips.
Then she pulled away definitively, putting space between them. “Stay here. Rest. Don’t answer the door.” She grabbed her jacket, shoving her feet into her boots without sitting. “I’ll be back after I check on him.”
He didn’t try to stop her again. He just watched from the center of the ruined bed, a silhouette against the sickly yellow light, as she slipped out the door and into the muffled roar of the night.
The city at night was a different animal, all liquid neon and pooling shadows. She kept her head down, walking fast, the cool air helping to scrub the scent of him from her skin. The phantom weight of his hands on her breasts lingered, a ghost touch that made her feel exposed.
She took two different buses, looping back on herself, watching reflections in dark windows. No one followed. The safe house apartment building loomed, a dark brick slab with a single lit window on the third floor. Richard’s window.
She let herself in with the key, the click of the lock sounding dangerously loud in the silent stairwell. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the smell of instant noodles and adolescent anxiety. The living room was dark, the only light spilling from the half-open door of the small study.
She found him there, slumped in the desk chair, bathed in the cold blue glow of the laptop screen. Lines of code she didn’t understand scrolled lazily. He was asleep, his head lolled to the side, his glasses slightly askew. He looked heartbreakingly young.
She leaned against the doorframe, just watching him for a moment. The guilt was a physical thing, a leaden weight in her gut. She’d left him here, scared and alone, while she fucked a wounded cop in a pay-by-the-hour motel. The pattern, so clear, so stupid, made her want to vomit.
The floorboard under her foot creaked.
Richard jerked awake, a sharp intake of breath, his hands flailing for a moment before his eyes focused on her. “Heather. Jesus.” He straightened his glasses, pushing his hair back. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” she said, forcing a smile that felt like a cracked mask. “Any trouble?”
“No.” He shook his head, rotating his stiff neck. “Quiet. Too quiet.” His eyes scanned her, taking in the oversized t-shirt, the borrowed jacket. “Is he… okay?”
“He’s fine,” she said, the words coming out too quickly. “Resting. The wound’s a little inflamed, but he’s tough.” She walked into the room, pretending to look at the lines of code on his screen. “What’s all this?”
“Trying to carve out one clean transaction,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “It’s like digging through digital concrete. Everything’s nested, encrypted, salted.” He looked up at her, his gaze sharpening. “You okay? You seem… weird.”
“I’m always weird,” she deflected, perching on the edge of the desk. “We need a new plan, Lee. The press conference is too open, too exposed. If Michael’s people and Moretti’s people are both looking for us, we walk into that plaza, we’re silhouettes in a shooting gallery.”
Richard blinked, fully awake now. “So what, then? We just sit on it?”
“No.” Heather’s mind, finally clear of the distracting fog of Michael Vickers, began clicking into its natural, scheming gear. “We use the one piece of leverage we have that doesn’t require us to be in the room.” She pointed a finger at the laptop. “We send a preview. One file. One photograph. To Davidson, the reporter. We prove we have it, and we tell him what’s on the rest. We let him and the network lawyers light the fuse.”
A slow smile spread across Richard’s tired face. It was the first genuine light she’d seen in his eyes since the garage. “A remote detonation.”
“Exactly.” She nodded, a similar grim energy rising in her. “We just need to find one file that’s…” She trailed off, her eyes catching on a line of directory names he had open. One folder was simply labelled ‘Annex_Deliveries_Images’.
“Open that,” she said, her voice low.
He clicked. The folder contained hundreds of image files with alphanumeric names. He opened one at random. It was a blurry, time-stamped still from a security camera, showing a loading dock. A man in a suit was shaking hands with a man in coveralls. It was late, the lighting poor.
“Next,” Heather breathed.
He clicked through a dozen more. More deliveries, more anonymous workers. Then, he stopped. The image was clearer. It showed the same loading dock, but the man in the suit was turned slightly toward the camera. Councilman Lewis Vargas. He was accepting a small, sealed cardboard box from a man whose face was obscured by a baseball cap.
But tucked under Vargas’s other arm was a thicker, legal-sized envelope. And standing just behind him, visible in the edge of the frame, was a man with a scarred face and cold eyes.
Marco “The Hammer” Moretti.
“Got you,” Richard whispered, his fingers flying over the keyboard. He isolated the image, cropping and enhancing. The time stamp glowed in the corner: 2:17 AM, three months ago. “It’s a direct handoff. No intermediaries. Vargas and Moretti, together.”
Heather stared at the frozen moment of corruption. This was it. The proof that could tie a city councilman directly to organized crime. Not speculation, not hearsay. A digital snapshot.
“That’s the one,” she said, her voice steady with newfound certainty. “Package it up. Write the email. We’re not just leaking evidence anymore, Richard.” She met his eyes, seeing the same fierce resolve reflected back at her. “We’re declaring war.”
The only sound in the study was the anxious tap-tap-tap of Richard’s fingers on the keyboard and the low, persistent buzz of the fluorescent light overhead. It flickered occasionally, casting a sickly strobe over the stacks of paper and the dead security monitors lining the walls. Heather watched over his shoulder, her arms crossed tightly over the oversized fabric of Michael’s t-shirt. It still smelled faintly of him—antiseptic, sweat, motel soap. She felt like she was wearing a crime scene.
“Encrypting the attachment,” Richard murmured, more to himself than to her. His eyes were fixed on the screen, reflected in his glasses. “Routing through… three separate proxy servers. It’ll look like it’s coming from a public library in Helsinki.”
Heather nodded, her jaw tight. The image of Councilman Vargas and Marco Moretti frozen in that grainy handoff glowed on the monitor. It looked innocuous, a bland meeting in a shadowy dock. It felt like a live wire.
“The message is simple,” Richard said, his voice gaining a sliver of confidence. “We have the full archive. This is proof of validity. We will transmit everything to your secured server at a pre-arranged time, provided you guarantee broadcast within six hours of receipt. No police involvement until airtime.” He glanced up at her. “It’s what Michael said. We control the clock.”
“What’s the email address?” Heather asked, leaning closer.
“davidson.investigates@globalnews.com,” Richard read off. “It’s on their contact page. Probably monitored by interns, but it’ll get to him.”
“Do it.”
Richard’s finger hovered over the trackpad. He took a deep, shaky breath, let it out slowly. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
He clicked Send.
The whoosh sound was absurdly cheerful. A little animation of a paper airplane sailed across the screen and disappeared. That was it. The declaration of war was now a collection of electrons hurtling through the dark.
The room seemed to exhale. The tension didn’t leave, but it changed, settling into a lower, duller hum. The waiting had begun.
Richard slumped back in the chair, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. “It’s gone.”
“Yeah.” Heather walked to the grimy window, peering through a slat in the blinds at the empty street below. Nothing moved. “Now we wait for him to bite.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“He will. A story like this? It’s Pulitzer bait. He’d crawl over broken glass for it.” She turned from the window, studying Richard. He looked exhausted, younger than his nineteen years. “You should try to sleep.”
“Sleep?” He gave a short, hollow laugh. “Right. Because that’s happening.” He spun the chair slowly, facing her. His gaze drifted over her, and she saw the moment he really registered what she was wearing. The large, gray t-shirt was clearly a man’s. It hung off one shoulder. His eyes flickered with a confusion that quickly sharpened into understanding, then something that looked like hurt.
He looked away, suddenly fascinated by a dead pixel on one of the blank monitor screens. “You were gone a long time,” he said quietly. “At the motel.”
The air in the room thickened. The buzz of the light felt louder.
“Michael needed supplies,” Heather said, her tone deliberately even. “The wound was worse than he let on.”
“I bet.” Richard’s voice was barely audible. He didn’t look at her. A long silence stretched, punctuated only by the hum of the laptop fan. “You know, when I was like, eight,” he said suddenly, “I had this massive crush on you.”
Heather blinked. “Lee.”
“No, let me… I just need to say it.” He finally looked at her, his face pale but determined. “You’d put me to bed, and I’d pretend to be asleep just so you’d come check on me. You’d straighten my covers and I’d catch your smell—like, vanilla and Dial soap—and my heart would hammer so loud I thought you’d hear it.” He gave a shaky, embarrassed smile. “It was the most terrifying and awesome feeling in the world.”
“Richard, that’s…” She didn’t know what to say. Sweet? Awkward? Painfully innocent?
“Then you’d leave,” he continued, his words spilling out now. “And I’d hear your boyfriend’s car pull up outside. Some guy with a loud engine. You’d laugh this different laugh, this grown-up laugh, and the front door would close.” He swallowed. “I hated that sound. I hated all of them. Every guy that ever picked you up or dropped you off. I’d lie there and imagine… I don’t know. That I was older. That it was me.”
Heather felt a deep, aching pang in her chest. She remembered those nights. The rushed goodnights, the peck on the forehead, her mind already on the date waiting outside. She’d had no idea.
“Lee, honey,” she started, her voice soft.
“I’m not eight anymore, Heather.” He said it with a sudden, startling firmness. “I’m not the kid in the race car pajamas. I’m in this. Up to my neck. With you.” His gaze dropped to the t-shirt again, then back to her face. “And he’s… what? Sixty?”
“Fifty-eight,” she corrected automatically, then wanted to kick herself.
“Right.” Richard looked away again, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “It’s just… classic Heather, you know? The most dangerous, most complicated, most absolutely-wrong-for-her guy in the room.” He shook his head, a bitter chuckle escaping. “I guess some things don’t change.”
The words stung because they were true. A hot wave of shame washed over her, followed by a defensive flash of anger. “You don’t know anything about it, Richard.”
“I know he got shot!” Richard shot back, his voice rising. “I know he’s got mobsters and probably the police looking for him! I know he’s using our safe house, eating our food, and… and…” He gestured vaguely at her, at the shirt. “And whatever else. While we’re hiding in this… this tomb. You were supposed to get antibiotics.”
“I did!” Heather snapped, her patience fraying. “They’re in my bag. What do you want from me, a play-by-play? You’re not my little brother. You’re not my keeper.”
“I’m the one who called you!” The words burst out of him, raw and shaking. “When everything went to hell, when my roommate was… was on the floor, I didn’t call the cops. I didn’t call my mom. I called you. Because I trusted you. Because I thought, out of everyone in the world, you’d know what to do.”
He stood up, the chair rolling back and hitting the wall with a thud. He was taller than she remembered. “And you did. You came. You’ve been… amazing. A badass. But now you’re disappearing into motel rooms with him, and you come back smelling like him, and I’m just supposed to sit here and keep decoding while you…” He trailed off, his anger dissipating into a confused, helpless misery.
Heather stared at him. The earnest, anxious boy was still there, but layered over him was a young man—terrified, in over his head, and yes, hurt. She saw it all now. The crush wasn’t a childhood relic. It had graduated, transformed into something more potent and more dangerous.
She walked over to him. She didn’t touch him, but she stood close enough that he had to look at her.
“Richard,” she said, her voice low and serious. “What happened at the motel… that’s on me. My mess. My pattern. You’re one hundred percent right.” She took a breath. “But Michael Vickers is not just some guy. He’s the key to this. He’s the only one who knows how these people operate, how they think. He’s the only one who might know how we survive the next 48 hours.”
Richard looked down at his shoes, listening.
“You trusted me,” she continued. “And I need you to keep trusting me. Not to make good choices about men. God knows that’s a lost cause. But to get us through this.” She gently put a finger under his chin, tilting his face up until his eyes met hers. They were scared, and young, and so damn tired. “You’re not eight. You’re my partner in this. And I need my partner sharp, and here, with me. Not… distracted.”
The word ‘distracted’ hung between them. He knew what she meant.
He let out a long, shuddering breath. The fight went out of his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I just… I’m scared all the time. And when you left, it got worse.”
“I know,” she said, and she did. She let her hand drop. “But I’m back. And we just lit the fuse. We have to see it through.” She managed a small, weary smile. “And for the record, the vanilla-scented Dial soap phase ended in, like, 2005. It’s all artisan cedar-and-saffron now.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
The laptop chimed.
They both froze. A soft, melodic ping. A new email in the inbox Richard had set up for their anonymous account.
They looked at each other, the previous tension instantly vaporized by this new, more immediate one. Richard practically dove back into the chair. Heather leaned over his shoulder, her heart thudding against her ribs.
The sender was a jumble of random letters and numbers. The subject line was blank.
Richard clicked it open.
The body of the email contained only two lines:
Proof received. Credible.
A broadcast window is reserved for day after tomorrow, 8 PM prime slot. You have 36 hours to transmit full package. Instructions for secure data drop follow.
Below that was a list of cryptographic protocols and a string of coordinates that looked like a map location.
“He bit,” Richard whispered, a thrill of nervous excitement in his voice.
“He bit hard,” Heather said, staring at the screen. Thirty-six hours. It was real now. The clock was no longer theoretical. It was ticking, loudly, in the silent, buzzing room.
She placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch. “Okay, partner,” she said, her voice all business now. “Decode those instructions. Figure out the data drop. I’ll go get our walking, talking, complicated key. We’ve got a timeline.”
As Richard bent to the task, his focus absolute, Heather stared at the coordinates on the screen. They were for a location downtown. A public place, probably.
A perfect place for an ambush.
The fear was back, colder and sharper than before. But it was clean. It wasn’t about messy emotions or bad choices. It was about survival. She looked at Richard, his brow furrowed in concentration, and then down at the borrowed t-shirt she wore.
Time to go back to the motel. Time to face the consequences of her choices, and use them to fuel the next, most dangerous one.
The motel room door clicked shut behind her, a sound of finality. The air was thick with the smell of cheap air freshener fighting a losing battle against mildew and old cigarettes. Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched, staring at the stained carpet. He’d removed the bloody t-shirt. A fresh bandage, clumsily applied, was taped high on his chest. In the flat gray light seeping through the blinds, he looked his age—pale, weary, the lines on his face carved deep.
“Davidson bit,” Heather said, her voice too loud in the quiet room. She dropped her bag by the door. “We’ve got thirty-six hours to transmit the full package. They sent coordinates for a data drop.”
Michael didn’t look up. “Where?”
“Downtown. Public place, I’m sure. Probably a dead drop. Richard’s decoding the specifics.” She walked past him to the small table, needing to move. “We need to get back. Plan this.”
A long silence stretched between them, pulled tight and thin. She could hear the hum of the ancient mini-fridge, the drip from the bathroom sink that hadn't stopped. He finally lifted his head, his eyes finding hers in the dimness. They were shadowed, serious in a way that made her stomach twist.
“And after?” Michael’s voice was quiet, rough. “After the drop, they just take my statement and we all go home heroes?”
“Something like that.” Heather turned away, fiddling with the brittle plastic curtain ring. The view outside was a concrete wall and a dumpster. “Witness protection for you, probably. A nice beach somewhere, new name. You’ll grow a beard.”
“A beard.”
“Sure. It’s part of the package.”
He let out a breath, a sharp, pained sound that wasn't quite a laugh. She heard the rustle of sheets as he shifted. “What about you? You just go back to recruiting… what was it? Logistics managers?”
“I will, yeah.” She said it with a conviction she didn’t feel. The thought of her quiet apartment, her spreadsheets, felt like a story about someone else. A before-time person.
“Last night,” he started, then stopped. The words hung there, bloated and awkward. Heather closed her eyes for a second. He cleared his throat. “That was a mistake, wasn’t it.”
It wasn’t really a question. She let out a slow breath, fogging the cold windowpane. “Probably.” The word tasted like ash. “You were bleeding out on my kitchen floor three days ago, Michael. You’re in shock. I’m… a known variable.”
“A known variable.” He repeated the phrase flatly. “That’s a way to put it.”
“It’s the true way.” She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest like armor. The cheap, thin mattress sagged under his weight. “You needed comfort. I was there. It got messy. It doesn’t have to mean we’re drafting wedding invitations.”
His jaw tightened. A flicker of something—hurt, anger—passed over his face before he looked down at his hands. They were broad, capable hands, now marked with small cuts and a faint tremor. “Right. Messy.” He nodded slowly, as if confirming it to himself. “So that’s all.”
She wanted to say yes, to leave it at that clean, surgical cut. The smart thing. The thing a person who didn’t attract chaos would say. Instead, she heard her own voice, softer. “It wasn’t nothing. But it can’t be… it can’t be anything else. Not here. Not now.”
Outside, a car door slammed. They both froze, muscles coiling. Heather’s hand went instinctively to her waist, where no weapon was. Seconds ticked by, marked only by the frantic beat of her own pulse in her ears. An engine started, faded away. False alarm.
The release of tension left her shaky. Michael was watching her, his gaze intense. “You’re scared.”
“I’m pragmatic,” she fired back, too quickly.
“You’re scared,” he repeated, quieter. “Of him. Maro. Of what happens if this goes wrong.” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Or of me.”
She didn’t have an answer for that. The truth was a tangled knot she couldn’t unpick. Fear of Maro was a cold, professional constant. This other thing, this simmering awareness of the man on the bed—his solidity, the memory of his hands on her skin—that was a new and terrifying variable.
Her phone buzzed on the table, skittering against the laminated wood. She snatched it up. A message from Richard. Decrypted. The drop is at the central library. Crowded. Today, 4 PM. Specifics attached. Are you okay?
She showed the screen to Michael. “Library. Today.”
He read it, his expression hardening back into focus. The moment of personal tension snapped, replaced by the immediate threat. “Four o’clock gives us three hours. I need to move. Alone”
“Heather.”
She glanced back.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, holding her gaze. “It didn’t feel like a mistake to me.”
She gave a single, tight nod, unable to speak.
Then she pulled the door open and stepped into the sterile, bright hallway, the weight of his words and the coming clock tick already pressing down on her.
The drive back to the safe house was a blur of grey streets and jumbled thoughts. Michael’s confession looped in her head, a counterpoint to the library coordinates burning a hole in her phone. Didn’t feel like a mistake. She gripped the wheel tighter, trying to squeeze the memory of his hands from her mind. It was just another complication, another volatile element in an already unstable compound.
The apartment door felt heavier than usual when she pushed it open. The study’s door was ajar, the bluish glow of the laptop screen spilling out. She heard Richard’s quiet typing. For a moment, she just stood in the dim living room, letting the quiet hum of the refrigerator wash over her. The emotional whiplash left her feeling scraped raw.
She needed a second. Just one normal thing. She moved to the fridge and yanked the handle. The light inside was harsh, illuminating a nearly empty shelf. A single can of cheap lager sat there, beaded with condensation. She grabbed it, the cold a shock against her palm.
As she turned, can in hand, a shape moved in the doorway. Richard was there, his frame blocking the light from the study, an apology already forming on his lips. They collided with a soft, awkward thud. Her hip caught the edge of the counter. The beer can slipped, clattering to the floor as she lost her balance.
He reached out instinctively to catch her, but only succeeded in tangling them both. They went down in a clumsy heap on the thin carpet, his elbow narrowly missing her ribs. He ended up half on top of her, one hand braced beside her head, their faces suddenly, violently close.
His breath hitched. Her own was trapped somewhere in her chest. She could see the panic in his wide eyes, the faint stubble on his jaw that hadn’t been there a decade ago. The silence was absolute, thick with the echo of their fall. A slow, incredulous smile spread across her face.
“Whoa there, Lee,” she murmured, her voice low and amused. She raised an eyebrow, looking from his lips, mere inches away, back up to his terrified eyes. A soft chuckle escaped her. “I’m not your babysitter anymore. You don’t have to knock me over to get a cookie.”
The joke broke nothing. If anything, his expression intensified, a desperate courage flooding his features. He swallowed, his throat working. “I know,” he whispered, the words almost soundless.
Then he closed the gap.
His lips pressed against hers, clumsy and anxious and achingly soft. Heather froze. Every muscle in her body locked solid in pure, unadulterated shock. His lips were warm, tentative. They moved against hers once, twice, a question.
The part of her brain that was always running, always analyzing, short-circuited. This was Richard. Little Lee. The boy with the race car pajamas. A geeky, nervous kid who decoded things for fun. The memory of vanilla soap ghosted through her senses, overlaid with the very real, very present feel of him.
He didn’t pull back. Emboldened by her stillness, or maybe lost to his own panic, he kept kissing her. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his touch surprisingly firm now, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. A low, involuntary sound vibrated in her throat.
It was a groan. Of protest, of surrender, of sheer, bewildered chaos. The irony was a physical punch. His ex-babysitter. Of all the stupid, messy, profoundly terrible ideas. Her mind threw up a frantic slide show: his childhood crush confession, Michael’s wounded eyes in the motel, the library drop in a few hours, Maro’s men who were definitely looking for them.
Her hands, which had been splayed on the floor, came up. One landed on his shoulder, the other against his chest. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart through his soft cotton sweater. She meant to push him away. She absolutely meant to.
Instead, her fingers curled into the fabric. For one dizzying, endless second, she kissed him back. It was a soft, fleeting pressure, an answer to his silent, desperate question.
It was a soft, fleeting pressure, an answer to his silent, desperate question.
Then the world snapped back, sharp and cold. Heather broke the kiss, pulling her head back an inch on the scratchy carpet. “Richard,” she breathed, her voice a strained whisper. “We can’t.”
“Why?” The word was raw, immediate. His eyes searched hers, wide and unblinking. He didn’t move his body from where it hovered over hers. His hand was still cupping her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. “Because of him? The old man in the motel?”
She flinched. “It’s not about him.”
“Then what?” His other hand, which had been braced on the floor, slid up her side. His touch was clumsy, trembling with adrenaline, but it sent a jolt through her ribs. He was so close she could see the faint scar through his eyebrow from a childhood bike accident, one she’d cleaned with peroxide. The memory was a physical ache.
Her mind offered a dozen practical, undeniable reasons. The danger. The timing. The sheer, monumental insanity of it. They died on her tongue. All she could feel was the solid heat of him, the years collapsing between them, the dizzying pull of a line about to be crossed forever.
He kissed her again. This time, it wasn’t questioning. It was insistent, fueled by a boldness that had been simmering since he was eight years old. His lips parted against hers, and she felt the slick, tentative touch of his tongue. A sound escaped her, a muffled half-protest swallowed by his mouth.
Her hands, still fisted in his sweater, didn’t push him away. They pulled him closer.
It was the permission he needed. His kiss deepened, grew more confident. The hand on her jaw slid down, skimming her neck, her collarbone. It dipped under the hem of her shirt, his fingers cool against the warm skin of her stomach. She arched into the touch, a shudder running through her.
His palm slid higher, over her ribs, his touch becoming surer. He found the clasp of her bra through the fabric. He fumbled for a second, his nervousness betraying him, then there was a click. The tension across her back released. He broke the kiss, looking down at her with a wild, disbelieving gleam in his eyes.
He chuckled, a low, breathy sound of pure triumph. “See?” he murmured, nuzzling the sensitive skin below her ear. His breath was hot. “I’m a big kid now.”
A groan rolled through her, deep and involuntary. It was a groan of shock, of surreal recognition at the whole impossible situation. Her ex-babysitter had just unhooked her bra. She had just slept with a shot, middle-aged material witness hours before. She was lying on a safe house floor while mobsters hunted them. Chaos. She breathed it in like oxygen.
She tipped her head back, giving him better access to her neck. Her own hands moved, sliding under his sweater, feeling the tense, lean muscles of his back. She kissed a trail from his jaw down his throat, feeling his pulse hammer against her lips. He tasted of salt and nervous sweat.
She shifted, rolling him gently onto his back. Now she was above him, her hair falling around their faces. His eyes were dark, his lips parted. She kissed the hollow of his throat, then lower, her mouth moving down the plane of his chest. She felt the crisp hair against her lips, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing.
Her hand went to his waist. Her fingers found the smooth leather of his belt. The buckle was cold. She tugged the end free from the loop.
The metal tongue slid free with a quiet rasp that seemed deafening in the stillness. Richard sucked in a sharp breath beneath her, his stomach muscles contracting under her palm. His eyes were locked on hers, wide and dark, reflecting the dim overhead light like polished stones. She could feel the tremor in his hands as they came up to rest on her hips, his touch unsure yet desperate, gripping the fabric of her jeans.
She lowered her mouth to his again, silencing any doubt with a slow, deep kiss that tasted of lager and adrenaline. His hands grew bolder, sliding under the back of her shirt, his fingertips cool against the heat of her skin. He fumbled with the button of her jeans, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin below her navel, and she rose up slightly on her knees to help him. The denim slid down her hips, catching for a moment before she kicked it away.
He watched, his breathing ragged, as she pulled his own jeans down. For a moment they were still, a tangle of limbs and hastily discarded clothing on the cheap carpet. The air was cool against her skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze traveled over her, a look of such raw, reverent awe that it made her chest ache.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Not with you. Not like it matters.”
She brushed a strand of hair from his damp forehead. Her own heart was hammering a wild, chaotic rhythm against her ribs. “Just be here,” she murmured, her voice low. “With me. Now.”
She guided him, her hand closing around him, feeling the smooth, hot strain of his desire. His eyes fluttered shut, a groan tearing from his throat. Then she shifted her weight, positioning herself above him, lowering herself slowly until she felt the insistent pressure. She hesitated, the world narrowing to this single, suspended point.
He opened his eyes. They were clear, focused entirely on her. “Heather,” he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips.
She sank down, taking him inside her in one slow, deliberate motion. The fullness was a shock, a pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. A gasp escaped her, sharp and involuntary. His hands flew to her waist, his fingers digging into her skin as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
For a second, neither of them moved. She was acutely aware of the rough carpet fibers beneath her knees, the frantic buzz of the refrigerator, the impossible reality of his body joined with hers. Then she began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that built its own momentum. Her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him to her, pulling him deeper.
He met her thrust for thrust, his hips rising from the floor. His inexperience vanished, replaced by a primal, instinctive hunger that matched her own. The nervous boy was gone. In his place was this young man, moving with her in a desperate, perfect sync. The world outside—the library drop, Maro, Michael—dissolved into a distant hum.
His pace quickened, became urgent. His hands slid up her back, pressing her closer. She could feel the coil of tension tightening low in her belly, a familiar heat spreading through her limbs. He was whispering against her neck, broken phrases lost in the sound of their skin meeting. “Always… you were always… I dreamed…”
The peak took her suddenly, a seismic wave of sensation that ripped a choked cry from her throat. Her body clamped around him, milking his own release. He drove into her one last, deep time, his body arching off the floor as he finished inside her with a ragged gasp.
The violence of it left them both trembling. She collapsed against his chest, her ear pressed to the frantic, galloping beat of his heart. Their sweat-slicked skin stuck together. The air smelled of sex and dust and their shared breath.