Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue) Page 5

  My bicep aches from the long day, and I head to the kitchen for an ice pack. Fuck. I wish I could drink myself into oblivion, but all that’ll get me is a killer hangover and even more problems.

  When I turn around, Austin’s only inches away, his arm outstretched like he was about to clap me on the shoulder. I don’t think. Instinct has me sweeping my leg out to catch him behind the ankles as I jab my right fist into his gut.

  He goes down—hard enough I can hear the thud—before I realize what I’ve done. “For fuck’s sake, Austin. Don’t sneak up on a guy who can’t hear you coming.”

  “Learned…that lesson. Thanks.” He coughs a couple of times, and apparently, I can still throw a punch under the right circumstances. “You should have Dax train you how to fight,” he says as he grasps my offered hand and lets me pull him to his feet. “That jab has some serious promise.”

  Any normal person would laugh at the idea of a blind man teaching a mostly deaf man how to fight. But given what I’ve seen Dax do? He’s probably got a couple MMA titles no one knows about.

  Beeping.

  The software programmed into my glasses doesn’t just translate voices. It also alerts me to ambient sounds around me. Like the beeping of Austin’s phone. He pulls it out of his pocket, and almost immediately, smiles and taps the screen. “Hey, sweetheart.” There’s a pause, and then he continues, “Yeah. I’ll call a car. You go to bed. I’ll be there before midnight. I love you.”

  “A car?” I ask.

  “I was pretty sure this night was going to require alcohol. I have a car service on standby. Mik…she still has nightmares, and…”

  “Call ‘em. Go home to her. I get it.”

  All too well. I can go a week or two between my bad nights now, but when they hit? They’re not pretty.

  “Not yet.” He leans against the kitchen wall across from me while I lay the ice pack across the scarred end of my arm. “Of course I checked up on you.” At my raised brows, he blows out a breath. “Seriously, man. You had to know when the Johns Hopkins folks reached out.”

  “I knew you’d arranged things. Didn’t know you kept tabs.” Is this new bit of information supposed to make me feel better? Or worse?

  “You got hurt because of me, Griff. Because of my fuckup with Clarke. Because I didn’t overrule the Ambassador and insist we find another route. Because I didn’t see that fucking wall about to collapse. So yeah. I checked up on you. Anything that I could do to help I was going to do.”

  “Except talk to me.” The words sting my throat and eyes, and I’m so fucking done with feeling this way. Like I’m this broken tin soldier no one wants around anymore. Rusted and dented and missing some of its parts, but with enough battery life to run for years.

  Austin’s shoulders heave, and he stares down at me. He’s got three inches on me, which wouldn’t be much if I didn’t feel about a foot tall at the moment. “That’s why I came tonight. To try to atone for my mistakes. To let you know I’m back. Not just physically, but truly back. And…to offer you a job.”

  Chapter Five

  Sloane

  Just before dawn, when the air is fresh and clean and the city hasn’t yet come to life, I slip out my door, pop a single earbud in, and launch my running playlist.

  Half a mile later, the beach comes into view, and with the sun peeking over the mountains to the east, the water sparkles, golden ribbons broken up by glittering diamonds as the waves break offshore.

  Surfers paddle out over the crest, and other runners pass me in both directions as I let the beat carry me through the five-mile loop. My left knee starts to throb a couple of blocks from home, and I shut off the music, cursing under my breath. I should know better. Running when I’m exhausted? That’s how I got hurt last year.

  “Sloane, you should stick to the elliptical from now on,” the physical therapist tells me when I shuffle into his office barely able to put any pressure on my leg. “One more meniscus tear, and you’re talking surgery. Three months minimum recovery time, plus six months of PT.”

  A torn meniscus in April? Not a problem. May, June, and July shoots are all for winter campaigns. But early November? That’s when everyone wants you in a bathing suit or another skimpy summer outfit.

  By the time I’m back inside, the joint is starting to swell, so I fish a bag of peas from the freezer, limp over to the recliner, and grab my laptop. Thank God for grocery delivery.

  I didn’t want to go the store anyway. Beauty and Style’s winter campaign just started, and from now until Christmas, my face will be plastered on every end cap in every makeup aisle.

  Hell, I’m on the grocery store’s home page. The fake smile, the light in my blue eyes, the perfect skin… If people only knew how many hours it takes for me to look that…natural.

  Once I place my order, shower, and mix up a green smoothie, I sink back down in the chair with my sketch pad and try to distract myself from the ache in my knee.

  At thirty-five, keeping my body in a shape the modeling world considers acceptable takes hours a day. Elliptical, yoga, weights, not to mention the strictest of diets.

  “Eight months,” I whisper as I start with a simple sketch—all I remember of my childhood home. Four walls, a drafty old fireplace, piles of blankets in the corner…

  A little over half a year, and my debt to Max and the Ulstrum Agency will be paid. Then, my life will be mine again. As long as I don’t violate the myriad non-disclosure agreements I signed.

  The lines on the page blur with each blink, and I rub at the contact lenses. Dammit, I can’t take them out until the grocery delivery shows up, but some days, my eyes are so dry, the lenses burn non-stop.

  The charcoal lines and curves on the page start to take shape, and with every tear in the wallpaper, each ripple in the worn-out curtains, my past bleeds through. It’s been years since I’ve drawn that dilapidated shack in Penza.

  Turning the page, I let my pencil drift across the paper like my hand has a mind of its own. A chipped pedestal sink, patterned linoleum, dents in the wall…and a crinkled candy wrapper poking out from behind the pipes.

  Why did my thoughts have to go there? To that terrible hotel where so many men used me against my will? Of all the places I could have drawn…why there? Why now?

  I haven’t had a Snickers bar since. I should have ordered one with my groceries. Though I’m on a strict regimen of green smoothies, veggies, chicken, and tofu for the next few weeks.

  At least until the big press junket in Zurich. Beauty and Style throws a ritzy soiree every year when they debut their Christmas Book, and Max thinks I have a good chance of being included.

  He’s so confident, he’s in Zurich now setting things up. Beauty and Style picks a dozen models each year for the catalogue and flies them all somewhere extravagant to mingle with their investors and the press.

  The last time they chose me? Eight years ago. But Max is so certain, he told me to pack. If the call comes, I’ll have to fly to Switzerland on Tuesday. Then, it’s nothing but cocktail parties, pressers, and at least one—if not two—runway shows.

  Pushing all thoughts of candy from my mind, I take a sip of tea and try to pretend it’s hot chocolate. It doesn’t work, but I’m not about to arrive in Zurich bloated and breaking out because I got low and deviated from my diet plan.

  The dark image crumples as I crush the page in my hand and toss it into the fireplace. Maybe after another cup of chamomile, I’ll be able to conjure a happier scene.

  The doorbell helps me leave the little pity party behind, and I tip the kid with a face full of freckles and barely there stubble. “Thanks,” he says, his voice cracking. If I had to guess, he’s all of seventeen.

  “Have a nice day…Kevin.” His name tag is skewed so badly, I have a hard time reading it, but the smile he gives me? It’s worth the struggle. Genuine, pure—the kind of smile you lose once you know how bad a place the world can be.

  I pause, the bag balanced on my hip, as I gingerly scoop up the small
pile of mail in my entryway. Junk, mostly, but one envelope catches my eye. The handwriting is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it and there’s no return address.

  After I put the groceries away—the spinach won’t last on the counter for even an hour—I limp back to the recliner with a fresh cup of tea and the mystery envelope. Only a dozen people in my life know this address. All my official mail goes to a P.O. Box that one of Max’s assistants checks for me once a month.

  Tearing the letter open, I shake the contents into my lap, then freeze. The photograph is old. More than fifteen years old. My wide brown eyes, the lids puffy from crying, stare back at me. Frayed, red spaghetti straps hold up a dress that probably belonged to half a dozen girls before me. Fingertip bruises ring my throat.

  Memories from that night come flooding back to me. The excitement of getting off the plane in New York City. Nerves as I handed the Customs agent my passport. “Da. I am here for vacation. Seven days.”

  Dimitri waiting for me, all smiles and a big hug. “You made it, Sophiana! How was the flight? Did you get to watch a movie?”

  “Da! I watched The Fast and the Furious. The second one too! The flight attendants were so nice.”

  “I am so glad. Let me carry your purse and your bag for you. After such a long flight, you should not have to worry about anything.”

  And I didn’t. Until he led me out to a van waiting by the curb. Inside? Six other girls. One from my flight—I remembered seeing her at the back of the plane when I got up to pee—and five others who’d landed an hour earlier. All frightened, some with bruises.

  I asked him to explain. He answered with a slap to my face.

  My lips press together over and over again, and my stomach protests even the simple smoothie I had after my shower. It takes me three tries to unfold the letter.

  Tears fill my eyes the second I start to read.

  Hello Sophiana,

  No. Wait. It is Sloane now, yes? I see your pictures everywhere. Such a slut. Always selling your body for money. At least when you worked for me, you knew what you were. Now, you pretend to be someone better. Someone different. You will never be anything but the stupid shlyukha who thought coming to America would fix all her problems.

  I know it was you who fucked that cop. You ruined my life, and now you owe me. So you will pay. Two thousand dollars every month or I will make sure the only pictures anyone sees of you are the ones I took. You know I have lots. The police never found my private stash.

  Because I am a nice guy, you can pay every week. Your first payment of $500 is due on Wednesday, November 3rd. Do not be late, my little Sophiana, or I send a copy of your passport and this photo to Channel 5 News. Tell anyone about our new arrangement, and not only will I ruin your career, but you will never be pretty again.

  Dimitri

  At the bottom of the letter, he’s scrawled bank account information. Along with a handful of Xs and Os.

  Nausea crawls its way up from my stomach, and outside a car horn blares. With a yelp, I stumble to the front door, my fingers shaking as I double and triple check the locks, arm the security system, and cycle through the videos from every camera—all six of them—around my home.

  The two panes of beveled glass on either side of my front door are no longer pretty. They’re dangerous. Dimitri could be watching me right now. Choking back a sob, I head for my linen closet, and even though my heart is beating half out of my chest, I manage to tack up sheets to stop anyone from peering in.

  I hate the darkness. Hate not being able to see the sky, the trees, the outdoors. But I close all the blinds, plunging my cheery bungalow into gloom.

  Curling up on the couch, I wrap myself in my favorite blanket and stare at the letter, chewing on my lip, clenching and unclenching my fingers, even scrunching my toes to try to release an ounce of this terror.

  Max. I have to tell Max. He’ll know what to do.

  Except, he’s in Zurich. Where it’s close to midnight. I don’t care. He’ll know what to do.

  My phone slips out of my hands seconds after I pick it up, but I scrub my palms over my yoga pants and try again. As his voicemail greeting ends, I swallow hard.

  “It’s Sloane. I—there’s a problem. From my…uh…past? Please call me back. It’s important. I don’t care what time it is. Just…call me.”

  I can’t say anything more over the phone. His assistant screens his messages, and she’s new. She knows nothing about what Max did for me all those years ago. Getting me fake papers that declare me an American citizen? A new name? A clean Social Security Number? He could go to jail.

  I’m not naive enough to think I’m the only one he’s helped. Max has a good heart, but he’s also a businessman, and I’ve made him a lot of money.

  If I don’t pay Dimitri and he follows through on his threats, Beauty and Style will drop me. They put a morality clause in my current contract. Not as strict as some, but I can’t take illegal drugs, can’t pose nude for any reason, and can’t be charged with a crime or I’m in breach.

  But that’s only part of my problem. Admitting to the world that I lied about my name? That I was once forced to sell my body so men could do disgusting things to me? That I’m in this country illegally?

  I’d never work again. Immigration would deport me—if they didn’t arrest me and charge me with a crime first—and could I even access the money I’ve saved? All my accounts are under Sloane Sanders. If the world finds out that isn’t who I am, I’ll lose all of it, and I’ll be penniless. Either in jail or back in Penza with Mama and Lana.

  I ache to see them again, but I’d be trapped there for the rest of my life. My two older sisters married men they don’t love just to have a roof over their heads. Food. Heat. And Lana? She’ll have to do the same unless I can spare her that fate.

  Do I even have a choice? Lana deserves a future. A real future. And Dimitri’s final threat? That I’ll never be pretty again? It was one of his favorites when he…owned me. He’ll cut me. Scar me. If I cause trouble, he’ll kill me.

  The photo of me from all those years ago? It mocks me from the coffee table. Even though my knee is still tender, I rummage through my bathroom cabinet until I find a canister of hairspray, then kneel in front of the fireplace.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper to nineteen-year-old me in the picture. The hiss of the spray is almost comforting. Tossing the old photo into the hearth next to the crumpled drawing from earlier in the day, I grab a matchbook and stare at the now shiny photo for several long minutes, the match clutched tightly in my fingers.

  The flame sparks to life, almost blinding in the semi-darkness of my curtained living room. The second it touches the picture, the skinny, broken girl disappears—along with the drawing of that dingy bathroom—and I destroy one more sliver of the woman I used to be.

  I’ll survive this. I have to.

  By 11:00 p.m., I still haven’t heard from Max. His assistant sent me a text assuring me he got my message and would be in touch soon, but that only made me more anxious. I’ve spent all afternoon and evening huddled under a blanket with my phone clutched in my hand. I didn’t eat, just had cup after cup of green tea until I was so caffeinated, I could feel my body vibrating.

  The crash hit hard, and now I’m struggling to stay awake, staring between my laptop and Dimitri’s letter on the coffee table. Why didn’t he leave a way to contact him?

  Because this way, you can’t beg for more time.

  Swallowing my sob, I pick up the computer. I don’t have a choice. But when I enter my password, the bank’s website is down for maintenance.

  Der’mo! Shit. Stop it, Sloane. You’re not that girl anymore. No Russian!

  The maintenance window ends in an hour. I’ll be late with the payment, but only a few minutes. Taking the laptop with me, I trudge through the dark of my bungalow, the night light in my bathroom giving the hall and my room a subtle glow as I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chest. Mama would be so ashamed of me for giving in, and when
I can’t stop my tears from falling, I bury my face in the pillow and let them come.

  I’m so sorry, Mama.

  A guttural snarl pulls me from the comfort of sleep. My head is wrenched violently to one side as I’m yanked from my bed, then land on the floor with a yelp. Disoriented in the semi-darkness, I flail my arms out in front of me, blinking rapidly.

  A dark shadow moves in my periphery. Heavy breathing. Not mine.

  Shit!

  My heels burn as I dig them into the carpet, trying to put some distance between me and my attacker. Why isn’t my alarm going off?

  A man’s laugh sends ice settling in my belly, but another hard blink, and I can almost make out his silhouette towering over me.

  I whimper, “Please—”

  His hand flies, striking me hard across the cheek, and the stinging pain brings tears to my eyes. “Shut up. I don’t want to hurt you. Not tonight. But I will if you scream.” Grabbing my chin, he forces me to look up at him.

  My vision wavers from the blow, but his dark eyes—all I can see of his face—hold a frigid glint, devoid of all emotion. He’s big. Bigger than Max. And solid.

  Pulling a copy of the latest Beauty and Style ad from his pocket, he holds it close to my face. “Sloane Sanders in the flesh. You’re lucky my orders are just to scare you, hot stuff.”

  “Wh-what do you w-want?” I whisper, trying to inch back against my nightstand.

  “Don’t play innocent with me. You read his letter. The instructions were very clear. Five hundred dollars. Before midnight.”

  “The bank…I couldn’t…maintenance,” I force out before the man wraps his fingers around my throat and squeezes.

  “Not interested in your excuses. Dimitri wants his money and he wants it right fucking now.”

  Struggling to suck in a breath, I claw and scratch at his arm, but he ignores my feeble attempts to hurt him and tosses me back onto the bed. My laptop bounces, and the motion wakes the machine. Five minutes after two. Oh, God. I fell asleep.