Taking Control (Kerr Chronicles #2)(73)
Author: Jen Frederick

“Back door?” I ask.

One women points behind her while another shouts, “Wait, you can’t go there!”

“Don’t stop him,” I hear behind me. It’s the driver. “His woman is in danger.”

The back room is filled with boxes, and I feel like I’m running a steeplechase as I hurdle over a couple and land a few yards from the rear entrance. I don’t stop running.

Outside, the alley is tiny, and as I count the houses, I encounter a tall wall, at least fourteen feet high. “Goddammit!” I look around for something, anything I can climb on top of. There’s a dumpster down the way. I’ll pull that over. But before I can run down, the driver puts a hand on my arm.

“I’ll boost you, man.”

I look at him for the first time. He’s slightly shorter than me, but built like a tank. He’ll do. “Thanks.”

He hoists me, and I’m able to grab the top and haul myself over. It’s a drop to the ground, and my knees are weak with the impact, but I don’t feel it. Running forward, I grab a chair and throw it through the glass patio doors of the Howe’s sunroom. The glass shatters, and I push through it, uncaring of the cuts the jagged glass is making on my arms and torso.

The interior doors on either side of the sunroom are open, and I race through them past the kitchen, looking frantically for a staircase.

In the gallery beyond the kitchen, there’s a metal railing and carpeted stairs leading down to the cellar. I fling myself down the stairs. There’s an open area with wooden shelves lining the walls, full of random figurines.

I pull the gun out and disengage the safety.

These city townhomes are long and narrow. Cecilia could be holding Tiny on either end of the basement. There’s no blood on the floor. That could mean that either Tiny was bleeding out at the end of the room or that she’d escaped without harm.

As quietly as possible, I creep toward the door to my right. The thick pile carpet muffles any sound, although the crash of the glass and the pounding of my steps probably alerted everyone to my presence. So f**k the attempt to be silent.

“Tiny!” I yell.

There’s a muffled yelp and then nothing. I lock the safety back on the gun so I don’t accidentally shoot myself. Bracing my back foot, I deliver a swift kick to the side of the lock mount, the weakest part of the door. The wood splinters, and I hear a scream on the other side. Tiny.

“Cecilia, if you touch her again, I swear I will kill you.”

Another blow to the door has it completely giving way. Inside, I see Tiny hunkered down on the other side of the room against a wall of wine racks. The air reeks of spilled wine, and there are darks stains in the carpet along with shards of glass that glitter like diamonds under the low cellar light. My heart stops when I see Tiny’s right hand clutched to her side. There’s a viscous red liquid seeping through her fingers that is definitely not wine. Her other hand is braced on her knee, holding a gun on Cecilia Howe.

“You know how you said we shouldn’t ever be apart?” Her voice is strained, but the hand on her knee is steady and she doesn’t take her eyes off Cecilia once. “I’m rethinking my need for independence right about now.”

“Oh, bunny.” My knees are weak. Part of me wants to ask Cecilia why, but there are more pressing things to handle. While part of me cringes at having to hurt a woman, Cecilia is an obvious danger, and I’d be foolish not to take her out. I strike the butt of my gun against the back of Cecilia’s head to knock her out. She slumps inelegantly against the side of the wall.

“Did you have to do that?” Tiny asks in a shocked voice.

“Yes, I did.” Gently taking the gun from her hand, I engage the safety and then carefully lift her into my arms. “I need to get you out of here, and I can’t do that if I have to watch my back because some crazed socialite is going to rise out of the cellar with a knife or something.”

“Right. You’re right. It just took me off guard,” she pants. “God, my side aches. I always wondered what it felt like to get shot.”

“You need to start having better fantasies. I’m clearly not doing my job right.” Cradling her against my chest, I give her both guns to hold and then start the process of walking up the stairs without jarring her.

“No, you’re doing a great job. This was just a weird thought I had before I met you. Back when my life was boring and all.”

“I’m sorry for bringing this into your life.” Christ, she should hate me.

“Nah, I mean, who doesn’t need a little excitement in their life from time to time? I shot this gun. First time.”

“To hurt Cecilia?” I ask astonished.

“No, just to scare her. It did the trick. She was yammering about how I didn’t have the guts to shoot her. I didn’t know if I did, but I wanted to live. I love you. Your love made me strong.” Her smile blinds me.

Your love made me strong. Had I once thought love weakened me? I’d gotten it all wrong. Love made me a better person, and with Tiny, I had all the more in my life than one person could ever acquire. She’s right. Love does make you strong.

“I’m pretty much done with excitement,” I manage to joke. “I’m even rethinking the house in Connecticut. Maybe the Long Island Sound isn’t far enough away from the crazy in the city.”

At the top of the stairs, I see Steve and Jake. “How’d you guys get in here without me hearing?” I ask, disgruntled. There’s no question I sounded like an inept burglar when I broke in.

“Ninja skills, mate,” Steve responds. Jake is on his phone.

“I hope you’re calling emergency services,” I say. When we reach the top, Jake gestures me toward the kitchen. Steve hurries in front of us and clears the table with one swift motion of his arm. Flowers, candles, and place settings all tumble to the ground.

“I hope that was some priceless, irreplaceable shit I just broke,” Steve remarks, gesturing for me to lay Tiny down.

“No need to give speeches,” Tiny jokes. “I’m not dying yet.”

“Speeches?” Steve asks. He glances toward me, but I’m more interested in what Jake is doing. He’s on his knees looking at Tiny’s wound.

“Yeah, usually you give me only one or two word responses. This time you used several words. Like, I don’t know, seven or eight.”

“Eleven,” I murmur.

“Ouch,” she says. “Do you have to poke me there? I’m wounded.”