Everything for Us (The Bad Boys #3)(23)
Author: M. Leighton

I smile. “Maybe.”

“Good.”

Nash releases my hand more quickly than I would’ve liked. I remind myself that it’s for the best. The more distance I can keep from him emotionally, the better off I’ll be.

But already a part of me is arguing that I don’t want to keep distance. I want to get closer, close enough to feel the heat. The problem is, close enough to feel the heat usually means close enough to get burned.

His hand at the base of my spine causes chills to erupt down my arms. Self-conscious, I want to cross my arms over my chest; I know my ni**les are hard. But I resist the urge. Rather, I put my focus on enjoying the touch of his hand.

The bar is dimly lit but for the circle that spotlights the piano. The smell of expensive cigars permeates the air and creates a haze that further obscures the half-moon-shaped booths that line the walls. Nash guides me to an empty one, pushed deep into a corner.

I slide in behind the table. Rather than sitting across from me, Nash scoots in beside me, forcing me to move around to the back of the booth, almost entirely hidden from the room, but with a great view of the piano.

When I stop, so does Nash. He doesn’t look at me as he slings his arm over the back of the booth; he’s already watching the pianist work magic with his long fingers. But that’s not the case with me. I can’t concentrate on anything except Nash.

His body is plastered to mine from my knee to my shoulder, which is tucked snugly under his arm. Even above the smoke, I smell his clean, manly scent. It envelops me.

I let my eyes slide to my left. Nash fills my vision. If I were to tilt my head and lean in, I could press my lips to the pulse I see beating in his neck, just above his collar.

As if he feels my eyes on him, he reaches up with his free hand and loosens his bow tie, expertly unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. The tie lists to one side, dangling at a sexy angle. Thoughts of undressing him run through my head, making my mouth dry.

With perfect timing, the waitress comes to take our order. “Vodka rocks and a Grey Goose martini, dirty.” Again, I’m fine with what he orders. Not that it would matter. He’d probably order whatever he wanted, anyway.

I wonder to myself if he does things like that because he’s that thoughtless, or if it’s because he likes total control. Maybe it’s a bit of both. One thing is for sure—the thought of giving him total control, of letting him take the reins, of letting him take me, gives me a thrill like no other.

Nash keeps his silence and basically ignores me until the drinks come. He downs his in two large gulps and signals the waitress for another before she can even step away from the table. Reaching forward, he slides my drink closer to me and shifts in the booth until he’s slightly tilted in my direction. His body creates a barrier against the rest of the room, like I’m shielded by him.

Or being overtaken by him. Overwhelmed. Slowly consumed.

“Drink,” he says softly, drawing my eyes to his. They’re deep pools that look like the perfect place to get lost, to hide out from the rest of the world. “Tell me about it. Tell me what happened.”

I don’t need him to clarify; I know exactly what he means. He’s referring to the days I was held captive. A shiver works its way through me, as it always does when I think of it, which I try purposely not to do.

“Let’s talk about you first. I’m happy to give, but I want something in return.”

“If I answer your questions first, that’s not ‘something in return.’ That’s bribery. What is it, Marissa?” he asks softly, his dark eyes taunting me. “Don’t you trust me to satisfy you?”

“No, I don’t.”

He reaches forward to push my hair back over my shoulder, his fingertips grazing my neck. “Well, I can promise you I won’t leave you anything but satisfied.”

I struggle to think past his smooth words and magnetic gaze. “You know what I mean, Nash,” I say as sternly as I can manage.

I can’t hear so much as feel his sigh. He’s so close to me, his chest brushes my arm when he inhales. “What do you want to know? That I haven’t already told you, that is.”

You’ve got to be kidding! You’ve barely told me anything!

I want to know everything, everything that has led to this moment, everything that has made him the man he is today. Everything that turned a promising young boy into this hardened, bitter person. It would be cruel to dredge up memories of the day his mother was killed, though, so I spare him that in hopes that maybe one day he’ll tell me voluntarily. “Tell me about your years at sea. You did say you worked on a smuggling ship, right?”

“That’s right. What else is there? I was involved in a lot of highly illegal, extremely unethical shit. You don’t need to know anything more than that.”

I feel the sudden chill in his attitude. This is obviously a sensitive subject and he very definitely has no interest in telling me all about it. But I’m a lawyer; it’s not in me to back down from a line of questioning just because someone doesn’t want to give me answers.

“Surely there had to be some good days. Tell me about one of them.”

I don’t know why I’m so desperate to know him, to know some part of him he doesn’t want anyone to see. But I am. I know it’s dangerous, but it’s beyond me to stop.

Nash sighs again, looking toward the ceiling. He’s quiet and appears frustrated, and it seems as though he’s not going to answer me.

But he does.

Maybe eventually, too, I will learn to expect the unexpected with him.

“My first year on the ship was pure hell. I was homesick, I was heartbroken, and I despised the idea of being involved in anything criminal. But I knew I had to survive. For Dad. For Cash. I knew one day I might be able to save us all with what I’d seen. And that boat was the only way. At least for a while. Dad promised he’d send for me, and I held on to that hope for a long time. Until I learned that hate could keep me alive, too. That it could save my life.” He falls quiet for a few seconds, lost in some kind of hell I can only fathom. But then he clears his throat and visibly shakes off the darkness in favor of something pleasant. “Anyway, a few months in, they brought on a Somalian. He wanted safe passage for him and his family to America, and the Russians had agreed to sneak them onto U.S. soil in exchange for his help for two years.

“His name was Yusuf and he reminded me a lot of Dad. He was younger, but it was easy to see he’d do anything for his family, to get them to safety, even if it meant being away from them for two years. He took up with me right off the bat. He spoke pretty good English and Russian, so he taught me quite a bit of both his native Arabic and some Russian while he was with us.” Nash smiles as he remembers and talks of this Yusuf. “We played cards a lot at night. He had the shittiest poker face in the world.” His lips curve up into the closest thing I’ve seen to a genuinely tender smile. But then it’s gone. “Anyway, on one of our runs to Bajuni, the island where we made port when we had an . . . exchange, I caught him sneaking into one of the smaller boats one night. At first, he didn’t want to tell me what he was doing, but when I threatened to sound the alarm, he changed his mind.