She vaguely remembered the ride through the underground tunnel that was some sort of secret entrance to the old factory building on Goose Island. And why a private defense firm wouldneedsuch a clandestine escape route was a question for another time. Because at the moment, her mind was fully occupied with beating back the urge to scream bloody murder.
The tunnel had been dark and spooky before. But at least it’d been alive with the glow of the headlight from Sam’s motorcycle and filled with the rumbling sound of the big engine. Now the darkness was complete. Profound. It pressed in on her from all sides. And to add to the eeriness of it all, she could hear the distant, echoing sound of water slowly sliding off the concrete walls and falling to the floor.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It was the musical score of every horror film she’d ever seen, the soundtrack to all her nightmares. And when mixed with the fishy, wet scent of the tunnel—a smell so fecund and ripe she could taste it in the back of her throat—it took every ounce of her self-possession not to scrabble around in the dark in search of the button that would re-open the wall.
And to hell with the federal agents waiting on the other side who’ll haul me back into custody!
“Breathe.” Sam’s deep voice reached out to her in the blackness. “They can’t hear us in here. You don’t need to hold your breath.”
Am I holding my breath?
She hadn’t realized.
A wheezy exhale escaped her. And with her lungs empty, she could feel how painfully her heart beat against her ribs.
“Ever notice how terror tastes like gunmetal?” she whispered, hunching her shoulders up around her ears when her voice echoed downward and then was swallowed up by the curve in the tunnel as if there was something down there in the black depths that ate sound.
Her inhale was as shaky and wheezy as her exhale had been, forced as it was past the lump in her throat.
A light suddenly blazed to life, shining brightly in her face. Instinct had her blinking and lifting a hand to shade her eyes against the obnoxious glare. Which is when she realized Sam had turned on his phone’s flashlight feature.
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “I’m just scared. And cold. And—” The lump in her throat blocked the last of her words, leaving her to shake her head ineffectually.
Shoving the device into the front pocket of his jeans, he left the top peeking out from the denim so the little light could continue to cut a small circle through the stygian blackness around them.
She almost preferred the dark. She couldn’t see the green and gray shadows dancing along the concrete walls then. Shadows that seemed to come from nowhere and take on a life of their own.
She shivered. Whether from the damp chill in the tunnel or the terror that clawed at the back of her neck with icy nails she couldn’t say.
“Come ’ere.” He grabbed her wrist and gave her a tug.
She fell willingly against his chest and buried her nose in the hollow at the base of his throat. Wanting to crawl inside his skin. Wanting to hide away from the trouble that stalked her and the nameless, faceless horror that seemed to inhabit the very air of the tunnel like a sentient miasma.
“You’re shaking like a leaf.” He ran his wide palms up and down her back and tucked his chin until his words were breathed into the crown of her head.
“It’s been a long day.” Her voice was muffled by the fabric of his shirt. She happily took in the smell of him, dryer sheets and aftershave and…man.
She prided herself on being tough. On being resilient and tenacious and independent. But in that moment, she couldn’t deny she…neededhim. Needed his warmth. Needed his strength. Needed his dogged determination to see this nightmare through until the end because she was starting to feel overwhelmed and a little hopeless about the sheer scope of shit raining down on her head.
It would have been so easy to go up on tiptoe and distract herself from her predicament by pressing her mouth to the scar that marred the perfection of his neck. She wanted to touch her lips to that wounded skin and whisper away the hurt.
Thenhewould be the one slamming a hand on that button, to hell with the feds,she thought dejectedly.Either that, or he’d run screaming to the other end of the tunnel.
“Why do you know what gunmetal tastes like, Hannah?” His words were low, barely reaching her ears. Even still, there was no mistaking the concern in them.
She instantly knew her mistake.
“Not for the reason you’re thinking,” she was quick to reassure him. “Cesar owns a pistol. Given the current political environment and the witch hunts that’ve been launched against drag queens, he’d be a fool not to. He’s diligent about keeping his gun in top-notch condition. Anytime he cleans it, the smell lingers in the apartment and coats my tongue.”
“Ah.” That one word held a wealth of relief.
Tilting her head back, she looked into his shadowed face. His eyes, always so bright and piercing, were hooded by eyelashes so thick and inky her sister had spoken of them enviously and lamented how they were wasted on a man.
Hannah disagreed.
Nothingwas wasted on Sam. From his thick head of mink-dark hair to his olive skin to his leanly muscled physique, he epitomized everything a man should be.
