Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (14 page)

"
Y
ou made love
all night
?" Kat's voice is gleeful on the other end of the line.

"Well, technically not
all
night." I'm lounging on Chase's giant, Chase-sized sofa, sipping water and trying to ignore my growling stomach. I don't have a key to the apartment, so I can't leave to get food.

And after all our bedroom acrobatics last night, I am craving more than Chase's protein shakes. I want coffee.

And doughnuts.

And eggs with bacon.

And Chase.

But he's nowhere to be seen.

The late-morning sun fills the room with waves of warm gold. It's Saturday, the first day of summer break, and normally I'd be blissed out just because it was the beginning of my vacation.

But now I'm flying high, all because of him.

"We couldn't keep our hands off each other for
hours
. Kat, I think he's part cyborg. First of all, he's big. Like,
really
big. Like so big that if I hadn't kept myself limber down there with the ol' vibrator, I might've run out of the room."

Kat giggles, and I can hear Gray asking her what she's laughing at. "Nothing!" Kat says. Then she whispers, "You lucky girl. Of course, I have to say, it sounds like Gray and Chase have a couple things in common."

"And Gray's home?" I can hear his deep voice rumbling in the background.

Chase and I didn't make love
all
night because, around two in the morning, he said he had to "go to work." Whatever the hell that means. I assumed he was going somewhere with Gray, but what the hell do I know?

Nothing, obviously.

Kat hesitates. "If you want to know what Chase does, just ask him. You've never been a girl to beat around the bush."

I take a sip of water. She's right. But for some reason, I don’t want to know too much. It's not like this is a real relationship.

"Of course I'm curious. But I'm not
married
to the man like you're married to Gray. This is just Chase being nice. Giving me a safe place to stay."

Kat hums to herself. "
Riiight
. Gray says Chase never takes women back to his place, or sees a woman more than once."

I shake my head, even though Kat can't see me. "This is just him helping a girl out…with benefits."

I feel like I'm lying when I say this, but it's
true
. It's got to be true. Chase made it abundantly clear that he doesn't get involved with women. And despite hours of mind-blowing, body-rocking sex…I still have to get back to my real life.

I hear a key in the lock. "Speak of the devil," I say as Chase walks in the front door.

"Later, girl," Kat says. "But listen: if you want to know more about Chase, just ask him."

"Sure," I say. "Love you."

"Love you, too," Kat says before the phone line goes dead.

Chase raises an eyebrow at me. He looks drop-dead gorgeous in the yellow morning light; tight jeans, cowboy boots, a T-shirt and casual black jacket. His hair is a mess and looks hotter than hell.

His eyes are bloodshot, though.

I guess he didn't get much sleep.

"Who do you love, darlin'?" He gives me what I'm coming to think of as his patented Chase-grin, a naughty smile that makes my toes curl and my skin tingle.

"Kat," I say. Then I catch sight of what he's carrying. "And you if that's coffee!"

Chase kicks his boots off and drops his keys and a package on the kitchen counter. "Coffee and sweets." He walks over and drops onto the couch next to me. "For my sweet."

I squeal and open the brown paper bag. Chocolate, blueberry and cinnamon muffins.

"Oh, God," I moan, taking a huge bite of the chocolate one. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. You have no food, and I couldn't leave without a key!"

Then I take a sip of coffee and have a mini-mouthgasm.

I'm on the verge of joking that, if he brings me coffee like this every day, I really will fall in love with him. But of course I don't say that. I'm just high on endorphins from the best sex I've ever had. That must be a scientific thing, I'm sure of it.

There's probably a study in
Scientific American
or something.

Chase doesn't eat. He just smiles and leans back on the couch, rubbing my back with one hand and closing his eyes.

"Oh, poor baby." I wipe my face and check my cleavage for muffin crumbs. They don't call it a shelf for nothing. "You must be exhausted."

Chase cracks one eye open. "Not
too
exhausted…" He grabs my ass and hauls me up onto his lap.

"Chase!" I can't help but smile as he nestles against me. But he doesn't kiss me or try anything. He's just…cuddling.

Oh, dear. Cuddling with Chase is just as good as sex with Chase.

I need to get a fucking grip.

"What's in the package?" I say, running my fingers through his hair.

"Mm, that feels good. Keep doing that," he says, his eyes still closed. "It's your laptop."

"Oh, I forgot to pack it." In fact, I'd embarrassingly packed very little—because after all of Chase's crew left, I'd stood there in my little one-room apartment, surrounded by all my trashed and broken things—and I'd completely broken down.

And then, even worse, I'd started babbling while crying.

"I can't do it." I'd looked up at Chase, my eyes filled with tears. "I can't fit my entire life into one or two bags. You don't understand. I don't have a
home
to go
home
to. There's no childhood house on a special street somewhere, with everything I grew up with in it. This is it." I spread my arms wide, my voice cracking. "This is
everything
I own, everything I have in the entire world. And now it's ruined."

And it had really hit me. I'd never thought about the feeling of fear, or violation, that comes when your home is broken into. Ransacked. I'd glanced around the room in growing horror. I still couldn't believe someone had been in there—for how long? What did they do? What did they touch? What did they steal?

And then Chase had taken control.

"We're getting the hell out of here," Chase had growled. And suddenly I was in his arms,
again
, but I didn't fight it. I just burrowed my face into his fresh-smelling T-shirt, those impossibly hard muscles underneath, and let his warmth and strength wash over me.

He'd told me he'd have the guys pack everything for me. And we'd gotten the hell out of there.

And then I'd kind of forgotten about everything else in the universe except him and me.

I run my fingers through his dark hair, and he almost purrs like a cat. A really big cat.

"Thanks for getting my laptop," I whisper. "And the coffee. And all the sex."

Chase grins but keeps his eyes closed. He's obviously exhausted. "I had some of our experts look at the computer, just in case it was messed with."

"I don't know which is crazier: that you think some burglars messed with my laptop, or the fact that the mafia has IT guys."

Chase opens his eyes now, laughing. "You can never be too careful, Elle."

"Well, thanks for…everything. Do you think my apartment door is fixed yet? Because I don't want to be in your way—"

Chase wraps his arms more firmly around me, then settles his head back and closes his eyes again. "Elle, stop talking."

"What?

Suddenly the front door flies open. If Chase didn't have such a firm hold on my waist (and ass), I would've jumped five feet into the air. Then the young guy with the scars—Dacko—and two more men I've never met stomp into the room carrying huge cardboard moving boxes.

"What the heck?" I gasp.

Dacko drops his box like it's full of bricks and says, "Two more in the car, boss."

Chase just nods, then goes back to trying to nap.

The men leave three enormous cardboard boxes in the middle of the hardwood floor, then disappear. I can hear their heavy footsteps on the stairwell below. I shift in Chase's arms.

"What's going on?"

"Your apartment's been compromised, babes."

"Chase—"

"You freaked out, totally normal. It's scary as fuck when someone goes through all your shit. So I took care of it."

"Chase, I was going to go back home today. Or start looking for a new place."

"It's my fault your place was broken into, Elle. You'll stay here until I get you settled into a new, safe apartment."

I scoot off his lap and stand up. He finally cracks one eye open.

"It wasn't your fault," I say. "And I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

Chase rubs both his hands over his eyes, down his face, and growls to himself. A tired Chase is remarkably bear-like, but I keep that thought to myself.

Then he stands up. And steps toe-to-toe with me. And tilts my chin up so I'm staring straight up into those blue eyes.

"I know you can take care of yourself. But you don't have to, because now
I’m
here. And we've already emptied our your place, so there's nothing to go back
to
."

As if on cue, Dacko and the two other men return, delivering three more giant boxes. Before I can even thank them, they've nodded at Chase and are out the door.

"Chase, this is insane. I know you don't want me here. You already told me you only spend one night with a woman, and that's it."

“Darlin,’” Chase drawls, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the bathroom. “Did it seem like I didn’t want you here last night? All four times?”

I don’t reply, partially because the answer to that particular question is obvious, and partially because Chase is stripping, and if I thought his body was amazing in the shadows, it’s beyond my wildest dreams here in the light of day.

His six-pack ripples as he kicks off his jeans. He’s not wearing underwear,
again
, and when he turns around to turn on the shower, I realize that I might just be a butt-woman.

And then I see the scars on his back. They vary in length, and width, and shape. But there are a lot of them.

Chase turns around and catches me—catches the look on my face.

“Do you want to ask me any questions, Elle?” His face is dark, guarded.

I surprise myself by saying, “No.” What willful ignorance. But it’s what I do: skate across the surface of life.

Those scars look like they run deep.

He steps closer, looks down at me. “I didn’t get these from the mob.”

I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“But Elle, someone out there is…mad at me. Holding a grudge.”

“For what?” My stomach clenches. What is he saying?

“If I knew, I could take care of the problem.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I say.

“Because they want me dead.”

I repress a gasp. I’m frozen, even as the hot water fills the room with steam. This is real. Those scars are real. What am I doing here? What am I doing with him?

“And Elle, I’m afraid you're associated with me now. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but your life is in danger.”

I start to fall to the floor, but he catches me. Easily. Effortlessly. I’m shaking, and he wraps his arms around me, soothing me. Rocking me.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Chase says. “No one is going to touch you or harm a hair on your body. I’m going to make fucking sure of it.”

I tremble in his arms, because I believe him. But also because now I know I can’t leave him.

And deep down inside, I’m happy that I have to stay here. With him.

I don’t know which is more terrifying: the thought that I might want to stay here with him, or the thought that someone out in the world wants to kill me.

I
t's been
two weeks since I moved in, and I still can't believe I'm living with Chase—even though I know it's only temporary. And if I worry about invading his world, with my classroom supplies and boxes of clothing and books filling up every extra corner of his apartment, turnabout's only fair play. Because he's invading my world.

My senses, when I wake up in the morning and the sweet, woodsy smell of him is wrapped around me, along with his arms. The rough scratch of his beard against the back of my neck when he kisses me good morning. The low growl of his voice when he says, "Good mornin', darlin'," which reverberates in my heart and between my legs.

The feel of him sliding inside me. Exploding my world from the inside out.

We get along surprisingly well. It's not just the sex—though that is mind-blowing. Chase is a gentleman on the street, and a complete freak in the bedroom (and on the couch, the kitchen counter, the shower or even—once—inside his closet).

But he also makes me laugh. He's fucking hilarious. He's an awful cook, he makes the best coffee, he likes Western movies and all kinds of music.

He likes to listen to me talk. And he'll eat whatever I cook, even if it's mostly macaroni and cheese, because I’m a worse cook than he is. Being with him feels so surprisingly, wonderfully normal.

Even though he doesn’t let me leave the house without two armed guards.

If I ignore the bodyguards and the guns, it almost feels like I'm living with him just because we
want
to be together. I can almost—almost—ignore the fact that someone trashed my apartment. That anything is wrong.

Until he leaves for work in the middle of the night. And when he finally gets home and slides into bed—and into me—he'll only sleep for a few hours before he either takes me outside into the sunshine, or disappears again into the shadows.

I don't know when Chase sleeps. Certainly not often, and not with me. Some mornings I find him passed out on the couch, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxers, his jeans and cowboy boots in a pile on the floor.

Sure, he makes love to me—fucks me, whatever you want to call it—first. And often. But he doesn't often sleep in the same bed with me. I always seem to wake up alone.

Which is why tonight, when I hear a horrible growl, I jerk awake with a start. Something's in the room. Something's in the room with me.

I know this building is supposed to be safe. I know there's security, and I have to have a key
and
have the guys in the "office" on the first floor let me into the building. But still—that sound.

That horrible, inhuman sound.

I freeze, terrified. And then I hear it again.

"Chase," I whisper. For some reason, even though he's never in bed with me, I put my hand out, feel to my left where his body would be. And my hand hits him, his stomach. He's here! He's in bed with me,
oh thank God
.

Then I hear that horrible low growl again…and I realize it's coming from him.

In the pale moonlight, I can just make out his features. He's flat on his back, breathing hard, fast. His brows are furrowed, his beautiful face contorted as if he's in pain.

He moans, a low, eerie sound that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

"Chase," I whisper. "Chase."

I touch his arm, and he feels clammy.

Chase mumbles something, but I can't make out the words. He speaks quickly, and for a moment I think he's speaking—Russian?

"Chase." I'm nervous now. I get on my knees and shake his arm, hard. "Chase!" I say.

And then he opens his eyes—staring blankly up at the ceiling, as if he's still trapped in his nightmare—and growls, "I'm going to kill you."