Or transform it into a humid mess.
Either way, thinking about the weather helped distract her from the longing in her soul. Washing and rinsing her hair helped. Soaping off the last of the gray dirt and scrubbing her sore hands helped. She stared at the blunt, torn nails and scraped skin.
She’d never have smooth, silky hands. The calluses had been well-earned over the years. But they looked like hell. Sighing, she rinsed once more and shut the water off. Being maudlin didn’t help anyone. She stepped out and wrapped one towel around her hair and a second around her body when the power flickered once, twice, and then went out entirely.
Crap
. On the upside, at least she hadn’t been in the shower when it went dark.
“Hang tight,” Katrina called. “I’m going to go check the breakers.” Thunder boomed outside, louder and a lot closer. Shannon jumped despite knowing the storm had arrived.
“Okay.” Thankfully, that came out a great deal more confident than she felt. Gray light filtered through the windows and left the loft in shadows. Shannon toweled off hurriedly. At least she knew where everything was, and she fished out some clean cotton pants and a tank top from the laundry basket—another thing she’d been ignoring since getting home. She’d have to haul some laundry down to the corner and wash a few loads. Dressed, she perched on the edge of her bed and rubbed her hair vigorously. With the power out, Katrina would have to use the back stairs to get to the fuse box.
The power remained off, however, so Shannon settled for combing out her hair. Padding out of the bedroom, she glanced around the studio. The rain lashed at the windows, and lightning brightened the sky. The flickers were damn near blinding and left spots on her vision.
Two plates sat on the counter, loaded with steaks and baked potatoes. When the hell had Katrina baked potatoes? Of course, a bomb could have gone off while Shannon sculpted and she wouldn’t notice. Another boom rattled the windows and lightning strobed across the sky. At the open stairwell door, Shannon squinted into the gloom.
“You find it? It might not be us,” she called. Sometimes when storms were bad they could knock out power to the whole block. The reclaimed warehouse district hadn’t been the best neighborhood before people like she had moved in and started converting the buildings. Old wiring could be tricky in bad weather.
No answer.
Twisting around, Shannon traded her comb for the flashlight stuck to the fridge. Clicking it on, she descended the steps. “Katrina?”
Still no answer.
She reached the first floor and exited the stairwell into the empty warehouse. Someday, she wanted to convert the first floor into a gallery where she could feature her works and other local artists. It would be a great project. Maybe after the showing in Boston she’d have enough money to get a jump-start on that.
Thunder boomed again.
“Katrina?” she called, shining the light across the empty space and then headed to where the fuse box was. She nearly tripped over the woman. Katrina sprawled across the concrete floor. Dropping to her haunches, Shannon touched her neck. A pulse fluttered beneath her fingertips. “Crap, Katrina, are you okay?” Had she tripped over something in the dark?
Struggling to turn her over, Shannon stared at the bloom of red on the woman’s chest.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Go,” Katrina whispered. “Go now.”
But a hard hand covered Shannon’s mouth and swallowed her scream. Thick arms came around her, and she flailed as they hauled her backward. Shannon struck at the person grabbing her with the flashlight, but he kept dragging her and then her feet weren’t on the ground.
Heart racing, she dissolved into pure panic.
Rain spattered her face, and the chill water snapped her out of the blankness. Jagged lightning sizzled through the air, splitting the darkness in half. Awareness of the precarious nature of her situation hit her. Someone carried her, and she lay upside down over his shoulder. The man moved with purpose.
The world tilted, and she landed on a leather seat. She managed to force her eyes open in time to see the car door shut. Another flash of lightning illuminated the sky and a man in a hoodie, but the backlight transformed him into a harsh slash of a shadow. He climbed into the front seat.
Her wrists were bound, palm-to-palm, with plastic ripcord. She still wore her cotton slacks and tank top. He started the engine. Rain beat on the roof, but beneath the noise and the thunder…she heard him.
Humming.
Sickness swam through her. An image of Katrina flashed through her mind. The lovely woman sprawled on the concrete. Bleeding. He’d shot her. The man had shot her—or stabbed her. It didn’t matter. She’d been hurt.
And he was taking Shannon.
The engine
…. Dashboard lights added color to the gloom, and the windshield wipers snapped. She rolled against the seat as the car started to move. Move.
The car moved.
Adrenaline flooding her, Shannon twisted on the seat and reached for the door handle. The sound of the latch giving trumpeted through her system like a gift from God. Sitting up abruptly, she swung her legs, then threw herself out of the vehicle before she could think about it. She slammed into the concrete and rolled.
The impact knocked all the wind out of her. Her cheek scraped on the ground. Brakes squealed, and she rolled over to see the vehicle stop.
Get up. Get up and run. Run. Run
.
Somehow, she got her legs under her, and she fled. Not back to the loft—he’d gotten into the loft. She ran for the corner. A coffee house-turned-nightclub occupied a space less than a block away. The thunder boomed, and the rain poured harder.
Run
.
Oxygen burned in her lungs, but still she ran, ignoring the way the ground seemed to bite at her feet. She reached the corner. Behind her a car door slammed. Lights swam in her vision, then she raced across the road and another car jerked to a halt. Shannon opened her mouth and screamed for all she was worth, but she didn’t stop running.
Ahead of her, the club lights shone like a beacon. Mario, the bouncer, stepped out. His dark scowl turned fierce at the sight of her, then he surged down the street to meet her. “Call the police,” she told him, not even caring he had a hold of her arm. “Call them. He shot her. He shot Katrina.”
Mario searched the street behind her. “Where?”
“My loft.” She panted, even squeezing those two words out hurt. Gulping in another breath, she let Mario shove her into the club. The hostess—Lisa—gasped at the sight of her before rushing out to help. Then Gabe, owner of the club, was there. He was an artist, and they were friends.
They were all friends. But Katrina was back there.
“Hurry,” she begged.
“Mario’s calling 9-1-1 right now.” Lisa wrapped something around Shannon, but it didn’t help. She couldn’t stop shaking.
She didn’t think she would ever stop shaking.
Ninety minutes later, her nightmare continued. She sat in an emergency room cubicle with a nurse cleaning the cuts and scrapes on her arms. They’d rushed Katrina into surgery. Thank God she’d still been alive when the ambulance and the police arrived.
Angry voices rose in the hallway, and one masculine, commanding voice cut through the argument. A moment later, the curtain surrounding her space jerked back. She flinched, she couldn’t help it. Even the nurse jumped. They both turned to look at the man framed by the green fabric. Luke Dexter.
Tall, lean and wearing a foreboding expression, he was the kind of man who would normally scare the hell out of her. But more than that, he was Brody’s best friend….
Tears filled her eyes and she started to shake all over again.
The nurse hustled and then the blanket she had wrapped around Shannon went away and a warmer one replaced it. “You need to wait outside,” the nurse ordered Luke, her tone brooking no objections.
“I will,” he said, and his voice gentled from the brusque command. “We’re out here waiting for you, Shannon. You’re safe.”
She gave him a jerky nod. The
we
probably meant the others in Brody’s unit; they were like his brothers. He had no other family to speak of. He’d grown up an orphan, bounced around the system until he’d all but run away to join the military at eighteen. Men like Luke, Logan, Damon—they were his family.
“Is Katrina going to be okay?” No one had told her anything since they’d arrived at the hospital.
Luke didn’t lie to her. “I don’t know. Morgan’s heading up to yell at someone on the surgical floor and get details. Her family has been contacted. She was alive when she got to the hospital and alive when they took her into surgery. Those are good things.”
“I’m so sorry.” God, the damnable quaver in her voice made the words shiver.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “You were the victim.”
Oh, how Shannon hated that word. She huddled into the blanket, wincing as the nurse went to work on her cheek. She’d had some rocks or gravel in her arm—and apparently some in her cheek, too. Everything hurt. Trying to take a mental inventory of the aches and pains proved impossible.
“Foster is here.”
As if to confirm Luke’s statement, Detective Foster’s voice rumbled from beyond the curtain. “Cavanaugh, I need to talk to my witness.”
“You can wait.” Logan’s tone was pure steel.
Luke gave her a gentle smile. “We’ll hold the line. You can talk to him when you’re ready.”
“I should talk to him, though.” The trembling in her limbs felt like permanent vibrations. Queasiness swam through her stomach.
“Absolutely,” he said, his voice quiet and agreeable. “When you’re ready.”
The male voices outside rose in argument. The sharp bite of cursing colored the air, and Shannon winced.
“You rest, let the nurse clean you up and the doctor finish his exam. Damon and Helena will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“I need you to step out. Now.” The nurse walked over to the curtain, and Luke gave her a nod, but his gaze found Shannon’s again.
“We’re all out here. No one is going to get to you, understood?” At no point did his voice rise or harden. The commanding tone didn’t waver, but neither did the kindness. She believed him and, oddly, knowing those Marines were out there did help. The nurse closed the curtain and then returned to Shannon.
“Okay, hon. You’ve got a lot of bruises and scrapes. We’ve cleaned those up. But the doctor will want to do some X-rays as well. But I have to ask you, was there any sexual contact related to the attack?”
That did it. Shannon rolled onto her side and threw up.
When Helena arrived, she came with fresh clothes. It took another hour for X-rays and then the doctor checked her over. Thankfully, the nurse never left her, and Helena stayed in the exam room. Once the doctor gave her clearance, Helena helped her dress. Her clothes helped, the news that Katrina survived a gunshot wound to the abdomen helped more.
By the time Helena and Luke escorted her to a small conference room, Damon waited for them with a large Styrofoam cup of coffee and another container of food. “I don’t know if I can eat,” she admitted, exhausted.
“You can try, and you should.” Damon set her up a place to eat and then backed off. He and Luke took positions at the halfway point in the room. Helena sat next to her. Only after the detective arrived did Shannon realize they’d all put themselves between her and the cops.
“Miss Fabray,” Detective Foster greeted her. “I am sorry for what happened and sorrier that we need to question you tonight. But we need details, as much as you can remember about what happened.”
She tried to recount it as best she could—from the moment the power went off to when she threw herself out of the car. “Then I ran up the road. There’s a club and I knew it would be open…and Mario heard me and got me in out of the rain.”
“Did you get a good look at the man who took you?” Foster recorded her statement, and Shannon shook her head.
“It was dark.” An image flashed through her mind. The lightning splitting the sky, the dark shadow looming over her. “He had a hoodie on. I think. It looked like one.”
“Okay, what about the car?”
Again, she shook her head. “I found Katrina…she was still awake. She told me to go, to run. But then he grabbed me.” A shudder wracked her, and she put down the coffee cup before she dropped it. “He had a hand over my mouth and….” It all went blurry after that. A sick feeling surged through her stomach.
“I fought…. I hit him with the flashlight. I think I dropped it. But he didn’t let me go and then I was over his shoulder and it was raining.” Her wrists had been bound. She rubbed at them. The red marks were still livid and promised to bruise. “Then he dropped me in the car.”
Foster studied her. “But he didn’t lock you in?”
“I guess not. I heard the engine start and the car started to move. I reached for the door, and it opened. All I thought about at that point was getting away.”
“Did he chase you?”
“I don’t know.” She hadn’t looked back. The car had stopped. But she’d gotten herself up and ran. “I just wanted to get away.”
“You ran for the club and not back to your loft….”
“He’d already gotten in there, and Katrina was hurt. I didn’t want to take him back to her…and I wanted to get away.” He’d touched her. He’d carried her, and something in the car—when the engine started—ramped up her fear. It had snapped her out of the fugue that had left her bound and let her run.
“So, you ran to the club. How about once you were there? Did you see anyone on the street behind you?”
Mario had rushed out to meet her. She’d screamed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I was inside, and Lisa put something around me. Mario watched the door and then the cops came and the ambulance…. I made them go to my place for Katrina.”
“You’re doing great, Miss Fabray. I need you to think back again to the moment you were grabbed. Did he say anything?”
Had he? The images jumbled together. A hand over her mouth. A hard arm locking around her. Being lifted off the ground. Hitting him to no avail. Then…nothing. God, why couldn’t she remember what happened between when he grabbed her and when she woke over his shoulder?