Wanderer (The Nomad Series Book 2) Read online

  “You know her,” he says, refilling my glass again. It’s not a question. Anyone with a pair of working eyes can tell by the way I was gawking that she’s no stranger. They just don’t know she’s as familiar to me as breathing.

  “He was supposed to be alone,” I grind out, reaching for the glass and downing the contents.

  I knew if I came back to New York there would be a chance I’d run into her, but I told myself the odds of that happening were slim to none. I promised myself I wouldn’t seek her out. I’d only stick around long enough to do my job and then like always, drag my pipes across the state line and move onto the next target. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t need the reminder of the life we could have had—the life we were meant to have. I’m reminded every night I close my eyes and lull myself to sleep, dreaming of what could have been.

  Still, the sliver of Jagger living inside of Cobra—that part of me knew it was inevitable. As long as we are both breathing our paths will somehow cross. Our souls may have died, but the memory of them lives inside of one another. The spirit of Jagger will always belong to Celeste and she’ll always be mine.

  Until they kill me.

  I snap my eyes toward the bartender and I can tell by the way he warily stares back at me that he sees the storm brewing in my pale blue eyes.

  “I need you to create a diversion,” I order, clenching my jaw as the words spill from my mouth.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

  “Tell him his car was hit in the parking garage or that his mother died. Tell him anything, just as long as you get him the fuck away from her and give me enough time to get her out of here.”

  “Who is she?” he demands, glancing briefly at the table behind me before bringing his gaze back to me.

  I juggled with my answer. In another life she was everything, but in this life she was a cherished memory, one I’d do anything to save. There wasn’t time to explain who Celeste was and what she meant to me. Every moment she sat at that table was a moment too long.

  A million scattered thoughts ran through my mind.

  Did he know who she was? Had he connected her to my family? Was he planning on making another example out of her? It wasn’t a stretch to think that considering every time revenge was within reach Yankovich, or one of his hired men retaliated, leaving a sea of fatalities in their wake.

  I shook my head, clearing my mind as I stared back at the bartender who was still waiting for some sort of explanation. I don’t tell him the truth. I don’t tell him she’s everything and nothing all the same.

  “Does it matter?”

  Glaring at me, he bites the inside of his cheek before wiping his hands down the front of his shirt. I watch him reach for the wireless phone and step out from behind the bar.

  “You better pray to whatever god you believe in that you know what the fuck you’re doing,” he growls as he passes by, making his way toward the table Celeste is sharing with the man I’m going to kill.

  We live in one hell of a fucked up world. A world where innocent children go missing and families fall apart. A world where young love is destroyed and the remnants leave us hollow. A world where a man with a future loses himself and becomes a monster with no regard for life—not his nor his neighbors. A world where fate tempts him to do the right thing when he’s committed himself to a life of evil. A world where God dangles the beauty in front of me and reminds me I’m the beast who can’t have her.

  Like I said, we live in a fucked up world.

  “Sir, I have the front desk on the line, are you the owner of a black Bentley with the license plate number FAA 2824?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing but unfortunately there was an accident and one of the parking attendants lost control of another vehicle and it collided with yours,” the bartender says.

  “Fucking imbeciles,” he sneers, his Russian accent thick.

  I hear his chair scrape against the wooden floor and I grip the edge of the bar, preparing myself for what comes next.

  “Stay here. Give me a moment to handle this mess. In the meantime, order whatever you like,” he tells Celeste as I turn slightly. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as he points a finger toward the bartender. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “No, sir, am I supposed to?”

  “You will,” he vows.

  I take that as my cue to turn around, watching his back as he walks out of the bar. My eyes trail back to the table and lock on her, but she’s looking down at her hands. My brain sends a message to my feet and I start for her.

  I’ve spent countless nights dreaming of her and the reunion I never thought I’d see. No dream could have prepared me for this moment when I slide into the chair across from her and watch as she lifts her sad eyes to mine.

  Time stops.

  Worlds collide.

  Innocence and sin.

  Heaven and Hell.

  They become one.

  Chapter Two

  Age: 24

  Place: New York

  I’ve spent the last ten years trying to make the world seem like it’s a better place than it actually is. I wake up and go through the motions, put one foot in front of the other and try to make my life count for something. I tell myself what I need to hear—that God has a plan for me, that I’m here for a reason. It’s the only logical explanation for why I was spared and my best friend wasn’t.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself these things, or how much I struggle to believe them, I’ll never fully understand why God switched places between me and Alexandria.

  It should have been me that went missing at fourteen.

  Not her.

  I can’t change that though. I can’t change that I selfishly asked her to work my shift at the pizzeria so I could go to the high school football game and swoon over her brother. I can’t take back that night and worse than that, a part of me doesn’t want to.

  In a single night, both my dreams and nightmares came true.

  I became Jagger’s girlfriend at the expense of losing my best friend. She was abducted as she walked home from the pizzeria while I was kissing her brother under the bleachers. Jagger lost his twin sister that night and we both learned guilt will slowly kill you.

  Ten years later, I’m still in therapy learning to live for her and not just me. I often think of the dreams we had as children and make a conscious effort to do all the things she wished to do herself. It’s my tribute to her, to her life and the only way I know how to say I’m sorry.

  I’m so sorry you were taken from us.

  I’m so sorry I’m here and you’re not.

  I’m so sorry…so very sorry.

  It’s the reason I went skydiving last summer. Alexandria was adventurous and she couldn’t wait to turn eighteen so she could jump out of a plane. It didn’t appeal to me but I pushed away my fear and reunited with my best friend as I jumped from that plane. I closed my eyes, pictured her smiling face and heard her contagious laugh as I pulled the chord and descended.

  It’s the reason I enrolled in nursing school. Alexandria had a bigger heart than anyone I’ve ever known. She wanted to help others, to heal them and comfort them. She couldn’t fulfill her dream but I did. When I officially became a nurse her spirit was with me at the ceremony as I received my pin.

  She wanted to get married. She wanted to be a mom. She wanted a fairy tale.

  Even though I stopped believing in happily ever after, I am still trying to make that dream of hers come true. It’s why I’m forcing myself to sit through dinner with this moron who thinks his flashy car and expensive suit will somehow impress me.

  If I have to hear about his hernia operation one more time I might stab him with my salad fork. I mean I get it, first dates are full of awkward conversations and all that, but he’s taken the whole TMI thing a bit too far. I could have lived without knowing he couldn’t shit for three days after surgery. Yeah, the constipation story kind of dampened the mood.
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  “The only good thing about my stay in the hospital was waking up every day and seeing your beautiful face,” Ian continues, laying on the charm.

  Don’t roll your eyes, Celeste.

  Don’t!

  The bartender walks over to our table and I pray to God he’s there to tell us there is a fire and we have to evacuate…an apocalypse...something…anything.

  “Sir, I have the front desk on the line, are you the owner of a black Bentley with the license plate number FAA 2824?”

  Yes! Thank you sweet baby Jesus.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing but unfortunately there was an accident and one of the parking attendants lost control of another vehicle and it collided with yours,” the bartender says.

  “Fucking imbeciles,” he sneers, causing me to raise an eyebrow.

  First dates.

  Everyone pretends they’re something they’re not, and it seems like Ian is trying to hide the fact he’s an asshole. It’s fitting considering all the ass talk we’ve been engaging in over the basket of bread.

  Bored, I reach for another piece of bread and butter it as he pushes back his chair. I wonder if the fancy dish the little packages of butter are on will fit inside my clutch. He stands and brushes his finger over my bare shoulder, forcing me to lift my gaze from the little dish.

  “Stay here. Give me a moment to handle this mess. In the meantime, order whatever you like,” he croons.

  Yeah, right. Me and my new butter dish are busting out of this joint the minute you’re out of sight, buddy.

  I smile at him then turn my gaze to my lap as he whispers something to the bartender. Nonchalantly, I open my purse and shove the butter dish inside before closing it quickly and folding my hands over it—don’t judge me. I deserve something for my efforts. I just spent an hour with this idiot, one hour of my life wasted. If I had my tote bag I’d be taking the silverware.

  I don’t lift my head and count down from ten as I stare at my hands, plotting my escape.

  Something changes.

  Goosebumps prick my skin and I swear it’s almost as if an angel whispers in my ear and tells me to lift my head. The angel doesn’t remind me to breathe though and when my eyes lock with a pair of familiar baby blues, I gasp for air. A frenzied surge of energy crackles around us and for one rapturous second the world stands still.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” he rasps softly as he slides into the seat across from me.

  My lips part, drawing in a much needed breath as I pinch my forearm and dig my nails into my skin, begging myself to wake up because I know how this dream ends.

  “Celeste,” he calls.

  “No,” I croak, shaking my head. “You’re not really here.”

  I glance around the bar, desperate for the idiot date of mine to return and for all of this to be a figment of my imagination, but then he touches me and my eyes dart to our joined hands. My hand is lost against his, small and colorless compared to the tattoos that travel from his fingers to his wrists. Yet when he laces his fingers with mine, they fit just as perfectly as they did six years ago. He squeezes my hand softly and my palm feels like it’s on fire.

  It’s too much.

  Too real.

  “Feel that, don’t you?”

  His voice is deeper than I remember; a dangerous combination of raspy and rough.

  “Yeah you do,” he answers his own question. “Quit lookin’ at me like I’m a ghost,” he hisses, lifting his eyes to look behind me briefly before they slice back to mine. “Time to go.”

  I blink mindlessly as I stare at him, taking in all the features I memorized when he was just a boy. Now as a man his features are still the same but more profound, more masculine. Like his voice, they’re just as rough…just as dangerous. My eyes rake over the light dusting of stubble covering his square jaw and drift across his high cheekbones to his narrow nose. By looking at it one can’t tell that it’s slightly crooked, but if I run my finger down the bridge of it I know I’d be reminded of the night a football slammed into it and broke it. His hair is different too. The top is longer, the sides shaved making his light colored eyes that were pinned on me seem much more intense.

  Pushing back his chair, he releases my hand and stands, pulling the napkin off my lap. His fingers graze my thigh and all the air is sucked from my lungs, leaving my heart thundering inside my chest and I gasp for air. He touches his mouth to my ear as his other arm slides underneath mine and my lungs squeeze painfully. I feel as if I am suffocating, like my past is stealing my air and burying me deep in the earth.

  “Up you go, gorgeous,” he purrs. His voice like gravel, scraping over every inch of me as he tugs me to my feet.

  The butter dish spills out of my purse as it falls to the floor with a soft thud and I force my knees to stop shaking.

  “Shit,” I mutter, finally finding my voice. Snapping out of the fog, I snatch my arm away from him and bend to retrieve the contents of my purse. Anger coils inside my veins as the shock fades away and his presence blankets me.

  My posture strains under the heavy weight of his unyielding stare and my hands clench into fists. I don’t know if I’m mad because he’s here or because I feel him everywhere. Jagger has consumed my mind, body and soul since I was just a teenage girl, but after he disappeared I mourned him the same as I did his sister. I trained myself to believe he was dead, and all that was left of him was a memory. As he crouches down beside me, his hands working quicker than mine to pick up the contents of my purse, my lie becomes exposed and the ugly truth is reared.

  He left.

  Death isn’t a choice but abandonment is.

  His colorful hand closes around my elbow as he tucks my clutch under his arm and his pensive gaze stares back at me.

  “Your eyes always told your story,” he whispers. “I can see there’s a storm rolling through, gorgeous, but lock that shit up because right now all eyes are on us.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek as my eyes dart around the room, noticing that we have the attention of the few stragglers surrounding us.

  “They don’t need to know you hate me they just gotta think you can’t wait to rip my clothes off,” he says as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and swipes his thumb across my bottom lip.

  One touch and a rapid sensation penetrates through my body.

  “As long as you know it,” I hiss.

  “She speaks,” he replies, tucking me against his side.

  His cologne assaults my senses as his fingers dig into my hip, guiding me across the lush lobby of the hotel toward the bank of elevators. He extends his arm and the sleeve of his suit rises, exposing more ink. Desperate for space, I step to the side but his fingers dig deeper and I stumble on my heels. Wrapping one arm around my waist, he pulls me against him so our bodies are flush. The simple touch and our bodies ignite like a tinder of a match. The flame is instant—the burn slow until it dies.

  “Don’t make a scene,” he warns gruffly as the elevator doors slide open.

  The nerve of this asshole.

  Leading me into the packed elevator, he asks someone to press the button to the fortieth floor of the hotel before he continues to torment me by keeping me close to him, scraping that match again and again. The flame flickers, forcing me to feel the things I never expected or wanted to feel again.

  That’s right, I didn’t want to feel the wrath of Jagger Richardson ever again. Once we allow ourselves to feel we also subject ourselves to grief, and I have grieved enough over this boy…this man.

  When we reach the fortieth floor, he ushers me out of the elevator and down the hall.

  Keeping one hand on my hip, he pauses in front of a door and hands me the keycard.

  “Open the door,” he commands.

  “I’m not going in there with you,” I argue, swatting his hand away from me. “There is no one in this hallway but you and me, so you can get your hands off me.”

  “Like my hands where they are,” he replies as he grabs a hold
of my wrist. Chills roll down my spine as he moves to unlock the door.

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” I blurt as he kicks the door open and turns back to me. Piercing me with a glare, his eyes darken and narrow causing my chest to tighten.

  “Gotta catch me to kill me, sweetheart, and I ain’t ready to be caught,” he sneers. “Get in the room, Celeste.”

  Hearing my name on his tongue ruins me.

  Weakens me.

  Breaks whatever is left of my shattered heart.

  The door closes behind me, the lock slides into place sealing my fate and robbing my choice.

  Like death isn’t a choice neither is your soulmate.

  Chapter Three

  Keeping my eyes off her, I shrug my suit jacket off and throw it on the bed before I move to the mini-fridge and grab two bottles of over-priced beer. I twist the tops off them, bring one to my lips and tilt my head back as I guzzle the ale.

  I’ve killed with no regret. I’ve lied, cheated and stole without conscience.

  And I’ll do it all again.

  In a couple of hours, I will transform into the motherfucking reaper and pursue the mayhem I was born to chase. But right now, I’m standing here clutching a beer, struggling to find the courage to turn around and face the only regret I have.

  It doesn’t help that she’s more fucking gorgeous than I ever imagined.

  Torture was God’s intent when he made her beauty match her soul.

  Fighting for focus, I turn around and offer her the other bottle of beer. Her eyes dip to my offering and I see the anger ripple through her like a current.

  I wasn’t kidding when I said her eyes told her story. Line after line, chapter after chapter her eyes tell everything she’s feeling, thinking, wishing.

  And right now, she’s angry as fuck, thinking of a way out and wishing I was dead.

  “You’ve lost your goddamn mind if you think I will sit here and drink with you,” she sneers, shoving my hand away. The touch of our hands sends her retreating backward.