Authors: Chanel Cleeton
The sirens are louder now; we have seconds at most. I want to think that the sirens will bring safety, that justice will be served, but I’m not a naive little girl—I never was—and I know better. I know his connections will allow him to escape and the threat to me, Grace, and Luke will never end.
My hand is steady as I take the gun from Luke, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal. I lift it, the weight of it surprisingly heavy, pointing it at the monster who made me.
I pull the trigger.
I have Grace. And I have Luke. And for the first time in my life, I’m free.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Luke nods and we head down one of the side streets, following the exit strategy we planned, assets trailing behind us, bodies littering the street.
I don’t look back.
We check in with Oscar on our way to Knightsbridge. The Director escaped, but the Academy was burned to the ground. We lost five of our own in London tonight. We’ll wait to see what reports say from the rest of the locations, but early indication is that the vast majority of the missions were successful. The police are still processing the scene in Primrose Hill.
At the very least, we’ve hit them. Hopefully, they’ll be the ones on the run now.
Oscar uploaded every piece of information we have on the Internet, sent every major media outlet all that we have amassed on Ares and the academies. They have influential connections, but we’re hoping that the massive spotlight we’ve shone on their operations will be enough to derail them, that it will give us the time we need to disappear and start our own lives.
That’s what vengeance looks like for me now—transforming myself into something other than what they tried to make me, finding some semblance of peace in this messed up world.
Luke reaches out and finds my hand, his fingers linking with mine. I hold on to him with everything I have.
“Your mother?” I ask.
His mouth tightens. “I’m done. As much as I want to see her pay, I’d rather we go somewhere safe. Hopefully, this is enough to bring her down.”
“Where will we go?” I ask.
“Where do you want to go? We can go anywhere.”
I like the sound of that, the possibilities contained in that one word.
“Maybe we’ll let Grace choose.”
He grins. “Maybe we will.”
There are so many things we could say to each other, but honestly there’s no need. This is enough. What we have—the connection between us—runs deeper than any phrases we could recite. We’re bound to each other. Family. And even though my future is a giant unknown, Luke is the constant.
The cab pulls up to the church in Knightsbridge and I get out, my heart pounding. Luke takes my hand again and we walk up the steps together, heading through the massive open doors.
The scent of incense and burning candles hits me first, a few organ notes drifting up from the balcony where someone is playing. The side chapels are sparsely attended and I scan the space for Grace, my boots hitting the marble floor with a loud thump. I don’t see her.
A priest walks down the center aisle toward us, his dark robes swaying around him.
Father Murphy.
“I’m here for my sister.”
He nods. “She told me you would be.”
My lips curve. Classic Grace to believe in me.
His gaze darts from me to Luke and back again, and he opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it. He studies us both for a moment.
I should be terrified, afraid that he will see all that I have done. But I’m not. I don’t know if it was the confession, or regaining my memories, or this small victory over Ares, or getting my sister back, or Luke, but I do know that despite everything my hands are clean. It’s impossible to put a pretty spin on the things I’ve done, but I’ve survived, and right now that’s all that matters. And so I hold his stare, unflinching.
A smile plays at his lips and he inclines his head in the faintest of nods; we understand each other.
“I’ll get her.”
And then he’s going back the way he came, his robes trailing behind him.
I sit in the pew, Luke next to me, his leg against mine, our joined hands in my lap.
“I love you,” he whispers, the words making my heart swell.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we need some words. Perhaps they contain a little magic.
“I love you, too.”
Grace comes out from one of the alcoves of the church and Luke releases me. I’m on my feet, running toward her, wrapping my arms around her. She cries as I hold her, as she holds on to me. I know her recovery won’t be easy, that she will have nightmares, and triggers, and that for a long time her life will be about surviving, facing each day as it comes.
But she’ll always have me and I’ll be there every step of the way to help her get through this. And I know without a doubt in my mind, that for as difficult as it will be, she will get through it.
Another girl forged in the fire.
When her tears have dried, she asks me, “What happens next?”
“We start over.”
Luke stands, walking toward us. He’s cautious approaching Grace, but she moves toward him, giving him a hug that answers some of my concerns for how much this has changed her.
“Where will we go?” she asks. I smile at Luke, giving her the same answer he gave me.
“Anywhere. You pick.”
I spot Father Murphy standing near the altar, watching us, and I worry that he’s going to say something to stop us, that he won’t let us pass, but instead he just nods again, and I offer up a smile, the first one I’ve ever given him.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I turn toward my family, Luke’s arm draped around Grace.
“You ready, X?” Luke asks, holding his free hand out to me.
And I am.
“How about Alex?”
Surprise flickers in his eyes and then he smiles, a beautiful, blinding Luke smile.
I take his hand and we walk out of the church to the sighs of the organ, the sound of it swelling inside me until we hit the street and I breathe in deep, the London night filling me with promise.
How does the game go? Two truths and one lie?
Easy enough—for someone like me.
###
My name is Alex. My favorite color is black. I’ve killed more men than I’d like to count.
I’m done with lies.
Thanks for reading
Between Shadows
. I hope you enjoyed it!
Check out the first chapter from FLY WITH ME, the first book in a sexy new contemporary romance series about a squadron of F-16 pilots who fly fast, love hard, and live dangerously. Coming May 3, 2016 from Chanel Cleeton and Penguin/Berkley.
Jordan
There was a time in a woman’s life when she had to accept that wearing a headband made of pink—glittery—illuminated penises was too much. I couldn’t put my finger on the number—and I definitely couldn’t do it after my fourth tequila shot—but I figured that at thirty and still single, bachelorettes had ceased to be a fun rite of passage and had instead become a wake-up call that if Prince Charming wasn’t coming soon, I’d have to start exploring my options of the amphibian variety.
Of course, it didn’t help that this was my sister’s bachelorette—my cute-as-a-button, too-young-for-wrinkle-cream sister’s bachelorette. Or that she was marrying my high school ex-boyfriend. I didn’t care; I mean we hadn’t been together in over a decade, but the fact that my future brother-in-law had once seen me topless added to the surreal feeling of the whole thing.
I took shot number five like a champ.
“I’m getting married!” Meg screamed for what might have been the fifteenth time that night. Somewhere between dinner at Lavo and partying at Tao, this seemed to have hit her with a vengeance. On anyone else, it would have been annoying; on Meg, it was somehow still adorable.
At twenty-five, she was the baby of the family. A good five inches shorter than me, we shared the same blonde hair and brown eyes. We both had curves, but on her they were bite-sized. I was a king size—tits and ass that could put your eye out—not to mention the pink phalluses bobbing awkwardly on my head.
It had been Meg’s idea to dress up, and bless her, I hadn’t been able to say no. So here I was, thirty years old, terminally single, wearing penises on my head, a hot-pink barely there tube dress that made me look like an over-mammaried Malibu Barbie, and fuck-me Choos that topped me out at six feet. If I ever got married, I was so not doing a bachelorette. Or bridesmaids in hideous dresses. Or arguing with my fiancé over whether we’d serve filet mignon or prime rib. I loved meat as much as the next girl, but the drama surrounding this wedding had my head spinning, and I was just the maid of honor. If I were the bride? I totally got why people eloped.
My parents could do the big wedding with Meg. At least they’d get the budget option with me—if I ever got married at all.
Shot number six came faster than a virgin on prom night.
I wasn’t really even tipsy. I could definitely hold my liquor, but this was Vegas, and everything about tonight screamed excess, and god, as depressing as it was to be the eldest, even worse, I felt like the mother hen to the group of three Southern girls ready to make the Strip their bitch. It was time to up my game.
I rose from our table and headed over to where Stacey and Amber, my sister’s friends from college, were dancing, determined to kick this feeling inside of me’s ass.
When I’d look back on this evening, and god help me, it would play in my mind on repeat for months to come, this would be the moment. Freeze it. Remember it. How often could you say that you could pinpoint the exact moment when your life changed?
I could.
If I had anyone to blame for the wild ride that came next, it was Flo Rida. Because as soon as “Right Round” came over the club speakers, my tequila-fueled body decided it needed to move. It was the kind of song you couldn’t resist the urge to dance to; it made normal girls want to grab a pole and let loose. Okay, maybe just me. But it felt like kismet, like the song played for me, to breathe life into my sad, old self. So I danced, pink penises gyrating and flickering, hips swaying, hair swishing, until my world turned upside down.
Noah
“Dibs.”
I took a swig of Jack, slamming the glass down on the bar.
“You can’t call dibs, asshole. There are four of them.”
Easy shrugged with the same nonchalance that had earned him his call sign and made him lethal behind the stick of an F-16. He lulled you into thinking he was just fucking around. He never was.
“Are you saying I can’t handle four chicks?”
“I’m calling bullshit on that one.”
The guy got more pussy than anyone in the squadron, but a foursome was ambitious even for him.
“Fifty bucks,” he offered, knowing my pathological inability to back down from a challenge.
“Fuck you, fifty bucks. You can’t bang four chicks.”
Easy’s eyes narrowed in a look I knew all too well.
“Watch me.”
We all gave him a hard time for being a princess because his face was a panty-dropper, but he could throw down like nobody’s business. Lately, though, this shit had been getting darker and darker. We’d broken off from the rest of the group, Joker had gone back to the hotel to call his wife, and now Easy was drinking like he wanted to die.
The Strip had seemed like a good idea four hours ago, but I was tired and wanted to collapse in the suite we’d booked at the Venetian. I’d flown four sorties leading up to today, each one more demanding than the last. Today’s double-turn had topped me out at six flights this week, and my body definitely felt it. I was tired, my schedule screwed six ways to Sunday, and right now I was far less concerned with getting laid than I was with getting more than five hours of sleep.
Our commander, Joker, was on my ass for the squadron to perform well at Red Flag—our international mock war held at Nellis Air Force Base in Vegas. As the squadron’s weapons officer, it was my job to make sure we were tactically the shit. Babysitting F-16 pilots with a hard-on for trouble? Not in my job description. It was really sad when I was the voice of reason.
Sending a bunch of fighter pilots to Vegas for work was basically like putting a diabetic kid in a candy store. We got as much training done as we got tits and ass. And considering we pulled fourteen-hour workdays? That said something.
“It’s a bachelorette party,” I ground out, the subject already hitting way too close to home.
The flash of pain in Easy’s eyes was a punch to the nuts. Shit. It was worse than I’d thought.
“Screwing around isn’t going to change things,” I added, trying to keep any judgment or sympathy out of my tone.
If it were anyone else, I would have minded my own business; but it wasn’t anyone else, it was Easy. He’d been my roommate at the Academy, gotten me through pilot training when I’d struggled, flown out to Vegas when I’d somehow graduated from weapons school.
Easy threw back the rest of his drink. “Be my wingman for ten minutes. I won’t go after the bride. Then you can leave.”
I’d been ready to leave an hour ago.
“You owe me for the twins in San Antonio,” he reminded me.
Shit, I did.
“Ten minutes.”
He nodded.
I turned my attention to the group of girls dancing—they looked young and already well on their way to drunk. I was definitely calling in my marker at a later time.
At thirty-three, I was getting too old for this shit. Most of the squadron was either married or divorced, Easy and I among the few single holdouts left.
It wasn’t that I was opposed to marriage. I’d thought about how it would feel to land after a deployment to a girl who’d throw her arms around me and kiss me like she never wanted to let go, instead of landing to my bros carrying a case of beer. Hell, I saw the way guys climbed out of their jets, their kids running toward them on stubby legs, looking like it was Christmas, their birthday, and a trip to Disney World all rolled into one.
Even a fucker like me teared up.
I wasn’t Easy; I wasn’t trying to screw my way through life. I wanted a family, a wife. But I’d learned the hard way that not many girls were willing to stick around waiting for a guy who was gone more than he was around, who missed holidays and birthdays, who came home for dinner some nights at eleven p.m., and other nights not at all. It was hard to agree to moving every couple years, to deployments that stretched on and on, to remote assignments, and sorry, honey, this one’s a year, and you can’t come.
I got it. It was a shit life. The kind of life that sliced you clean, that took and took, stretching you out ’til there was nothing left but fumes. But then there were moments. That moment when I sat in the cockpit, when I was in the air, up in the clouds, feeling like a god. When the afterburner roared. The times when we were called to do more, when the trips to the desert meant something, when we supported the mission on the ground. The times when we marked a lost brother with a piano burn and a song. I couldn’t blame Easy for needing to let off steam, the edge was there in all of us, our faithful companion every time we went up in the air and took our lives in our hands.
We flew because we fucking loved it. So I guessed I already had a wife, and she was an expensive, unforgiving bitch—
Fortysomething million dollars’ worth of alloy, fuel, and lube that could fuck you over at any given time and felt so good when you were inside her that she always kept you coming back for more.
Jordan
As the soberest one in the group, I noticed them first. To be fair, they were pretty hard to miss.
A loud and more than slightly obnoxious bachelorette, we’d run into our share of guys tonight—preppy polos and leather shoes with tassels—some single, some married, all looking like they’d served a stint in suburban prison and were now out in the yard for good behavior. They had that wide-eyed overeager look, as though they couldn’t believe their luck—look at the shiny lights on the sign; did you see the ass on that girl?—and Vegas was their chance to make memories that would keep them company when they were coaching Little League or out buying tampons for their wives.
These two were something else entirely.
They walked toward us, and I stopped dancing to enjoy the show. They didn’t look like anyone had let them out for good behavior, or like Vegas was their grown-up amusement park. They looked like this was their world, and they carried themselves like fucking kings.
One was tall and lean, his face—well, fuck, there was no other word for it—he was beautiful. Tan skin, full mouth, blue eyes. Dark blond hair that begged for a woman to run her fingers through. Great hair. Perfect hair.
I admired him for two-point-five seconds, and then he ceased to exist.
The other one was not beautiful. He didn’t have pretty hair or crazy long lashes or any shit like that. I wasn’t even sure his features really registered all that much before he was just there, standing in front of me, and everything else in the club disappeared.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tan skin. Sexy mouth.
He was tall—in my heels we were nearly even, which was saying something considering I was a few inches off of six feet and wearing a wicked pair of Choos. He was broad-shouldered and definitely built. He wasn’t dressed up—I doubted this guy even owned a polo—but he rocked his jeans and T-shirt. An expensive-looking, enormous watch that appeared capable of coordinating missions to the moon flashed on his wrist.
His gaze ran over me, his mouth curving as his survey ended at the top of my head. I reached up to see if my hair was out of place and got a handful of something else instead.
My cheeks flamed. The penis headband. Shit.
I dropped my hand as though I’d been scalded.
Act cool. Pretend you didn’t just grip the base of one of the giant pink phalluses currently bobbing on top of your head.
His lips curved even more as he gave me the full punch of his amusement—gorgeous white teeth and a laugh I wanted to cloak myself in.
He kept coming until his body was a breath away from mine. He was big enough that he blocked out the club around us, the scent of his cologne sending a little shock between my legs. I didn’t know what it was about that masculine scent, but some primal part of me that probably harkened back to days when men roamed around bare-chested carrying animal pelts on their shoulders, liked it a hell of a lot. His head bent, his dark hair nearly brushing against my blonde strands. I got a glimpse of his tanned neck, barely resisting the urge to bury my face there and inhale more of his delicious scent.
I wasn’t much of a romantic—not with my track record, at least. I didn’t believe in love at first sight, but lust at first sight? That was a thing definitely happening all over my body tonight.
“Please tell me you aren’t the bride,” he whispered in my ear, his lips teasing the sensitive skin there.
I shivered, basking in that voice. It was gravelly, and growly, and I was pretty sure I was drenched.
“I’m not the bride.”
Our gazes met, his eyes darkening as soon as the words left my lips in a move that had me sucking in a deep breath, my lungs desperate for air. I didn’t know if it was the loud music, or the late night, or the tequila coursing its way through my body, or the stilt-like heels, or the fact that my ovaries exploded as he engaged all of my senses, but either way I was feeling more than a little light-headed and fighting the temptation to reach out and grab onto one of his impressive biceps to hold steady.
He smiled and I might have had a mini orgasm.
“Thank fuck.”
Thank fuck, indeed.
He reached out, tucking a strand of hair that had escaped behind my ear. His hand grazed my cheek as he released me and I swayed toward him.