Dark Control (DARC Ops Book 4) Read online

  His argument, at least what she deciphered from his slurred speech, was half-true. It was true that she had forgotten to sign a release waiver, but it wasn’t out of malice. She hadn’t intended on taking the money. She just had a little more going on in her life than Jason—including a job where she actually had to use her brain—and the paperwork of their dissolved relationship wasn’t exactly a priority.

  As long as Jason behaved himself and left her alone, it would be an easy fix. She would get in touch with the landlord tomorrow and straighten it all out. She would have to do that some time in the middle of a busy work day, which included an early morning presentation.

  Fuck, she hated giving speeches. It was another item in the long list of things she’d rather forget about. Onto her third—or was it her fouth?—drink, she’d already decided that doing extra work tonight was not in her or her company’s best interests. So now she felt free to drink away the memories of an abusive asshole ex-boyfriend. She carried this out by holding out a twenty-dollar bill like a flag at the bar, and then ordering another drink, or rather, two. This time it was a shot of vodka and a beer. She’d had enough of the sweet minty taste of her juleps. It was time to simplify.

  She downed her shot with a wince, and then a shudder as the hot liquid burned through her. The burn slowly turned into a pleasant numbness, and immediately it felt as if she’d constructed a thin buffer between herself and the rest of the world. A little, warm, cottony blanket in which she could hide under for just a little while.

  Laurel grabbed her beer. It seemed like a bad idea to remain at the bar, like an open invitation for both present and future ex-boyfriends. She didn’t need that hassle, particularly the makings of any future problems. Work had kept her busy enough. Another blanket to hide under, the professional aspirations of an independent career woman. It was something Mama could never understand.

  She walked over to an empty table, feeling a little unsteady. The comfort blanket had felt heavier as the straight alcohol began taking its effect. She sat at the table and pulled out her phone. No one had responded to her carefully veiled pleas for help.

  Re-reading her text, it was admittedly vague. She didn’t want to come right out and say that she was being stalked by her ex. Should she? Maybe she should just come out with it. PLEASE RESCUE ME AT WHITBY’S.

  She dropped her phone on the table in disgust. She wasn’t some victim in need of rescuing. Even earlier, with the musclehead hero at the bar. It was a nice gesture, but Laurel had everything under control. She was used to dealing with Jason alone.

  Her eyes had drifted over to the dance floor in front of the stage, watching the dark silhouettes gliding around rhythmically to an up-tempo song. It brought back memories of dance lessons, with him, their weekly sessions at the community center. It was how they first started dating, when things were still new and fresh and good.

  Somewhere in one of the garbage bags in her mother’s garage was one half of a matching swing dance outfit. She’d probably never wear that again. Might has well let the moths have their way with it.

  Laurel was still watching the dancers when the familiar, large shape of her hero came into view. He had his jacket off and she could see the firmness of his body, his muscled torso faintly visible through a thin dress shirt. He moved so well for someone of that size. Like a bodybuilder with the gracefulness of a gymnast. He was dancing, and dancing well, with a blonde girl who was struggling to keep pace in her high heels. Struggling also, to dance at all. But he seemed much more comfortable, an effortless grace with the music. When the song ended, she was in a rush to leave the stage. She was probably wasn’t familiar with any type of dancing that didn’t involve twerking.

  Laurel watched him close out the song and then step off the stage with a bashful smile. He was walking in hard athletic strides over to her table. They didn’t seem like a couple, since he didn’t seem to give her a second look. Off they went in opposite directions.

  He wiped his brow and saw her. And then gave a little nod.

  “Nice moves,” she said.

  “What?” He came closer.

  “I said nice moves. You dance pretty well for a musclehead.”

  “Thank you?” he laughed. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

  “It’s a compliment.”

  “Your friend never came back, huh?”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “Good.”

  “And no, he’s been gone.”

  He nodded. “Want something from the bar?”

  The sight of him breaking a sweat out on the dance floor, those sexy moves of his, had made her thirsty. “Whatever you’re having.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “Just nothing minty.”

  “What?” he seemed to not understand. And she felt a little drunk. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to a have whatever he was having. And to have it with a stranger, despite how nice he’d been to her. Didn’t they always start out that way?

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, disappearing through the crowd toward the bar.

  She looked down at empty glass and then checked her phone again. Still no calls or texts. It was well past midnight and she was well on her way to a hangover the next morning.

  Shit . . . That presentation. She was scheduled to give a talk about Sentry’s encryption for AIDA’s email servers. And somewhere during her visit, she was supposed to find out as much as she could about Abe Hudson’s insinuations about their corruption. Though what could she really glean from talking to people in a conference room? Maybe she could talk to their in-house cybersecurity people. Maybe she should just go home right now. Forget the next drink. Forget the cute swing dancer.

  But he came back to her table sooner than she’d expected, her handsome hero. Maybe it was the effect of her beer goggles, her sudden attraction to him. But it hardly mattered. At this point she was running on a lack of sleep and an excess of emotion. And about four drinks too many. It hardly mattered at all when he asked if he could sit, and she, against her better judgment, said yes.

  “I thought you forgot about me,” he said, sliding a beer over to her.

  “Why?”

  “I was trying to get your attention the whole night.”

  She decided against telling him the truth, that she’d only ignored him because she was sober enough to know it was the right move. Now that she’d had her drinks, it wasn’t so easy and logical to ignore his good looks and that sexy smile of his.

  “You got my attention earlier with that idiot,” she said. “Thanks again, by the way.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Jealous ex, you know how it is.”

  “Jealous?” he smiled. “I guess I better be careful, then.”

  “He’s the one who should be careful. You’re twice the size of him.” She tried to stop staring at his pecs. “Where’d you learn to swing dance?”

  “High school. I had a big crush on an actress. We were in a musical together.”

  “Which one? Swing?”

  He nodded a little shamefully.

  “What’s wrong? Didn’t go over so well?”

  “Well, I learned how to dance. And also how to scare off a crush.”

  Laurel tried to picture him twenty years younger, and skinnier. And most likely a whole lot more awkward. “Did she friend zone you?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. I think she thought I was gay.”

  She laughed. “Well, at least you can dance. And I was watching the way some of the ladies here were staring. I bet they weren’t thinking you’re gay. Or at least hoping you weren’t.”

  “That girl I was dancing with didn’t seem so impressed.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “No.”

  “Were you trying to pick her up?”

  He looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught. “No.”

  “Good,” she said. “You can do better than her.”

  “Oh, can I?”

  Sh
e hid her smile behind a sip of beer.

  He was nodding. “Well, good to know.” He looked back at the stage when the band hit a busy, noisy tune. And then turned back to her. “Shall we?”

  His boyish smile was irresistible. She wanted to dance, but she felt too heavy for it. Through all the alcohol and the stress of the day, it just seemed impossible to muster up the energy.

  “Not in the mood, huh?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah. So where are you from?”

  “Atlanta.”

  She laughed. “You don’t sound like it.”

  “Fine. I’m from Washington D.C.”

  “Vacation?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Don’t want to talk about it?” Immediately her thoughts raced to how he was lying, how he was a married man on an escape from his wife. Maybe it was a work trip, him trying to have some fun in the South.

  “I’m trying not to think about work right now,” he said.

  “You mean your wife?”

  His mouth dropped open. “What?”

  She took a sip.

  “You see a ring on this finger?”

  “I don’t know, maybe I’m just a little drunk and crazy. I’ve just had some bad experiences.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t let those creep into new and possibly good experiences.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I guess I just have a few traumatic memories.”

  “Good thing I was here to stop any further damage.”

  She raised her glass to him. “Good thing.”

  “Yep” he smiled.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  His smile disappeared. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I dunno . . . Thanks for the drink. What’s your name again?”

  “Matt. Yours?”

  “Laurel.”

  “Like Laurel and Hardy?”

  “No.”

  She looked behind them to the stage, where the band began playing another slow ballad. The vocalist had returned, and with it, her golden syrupy vocals. An old jazz standard, Embraceable You. Slower, softer, more her speed.

  “Good song,” he said.

  “So, Matt . . . You still wanna dance?”

  7

  Matthias

  He’d only learned swing dancing out of necessity, a strategy for gaining some face time with that one old crush. And even then, for their little high school musical, it was only the fast stuff. The quick big band favorites. Nothing slow. Certainly nothing sultry in a hot Southern jazz club far from the prying eyes of teachers.

  He’d never done anything like this in years. And he was a little relieved that Ernesto had left an hour ago. He didn’t want it known how much fun he was having on his vacation—despite how much he’d been encouraged to do so. Here he was, clearly indulging himself in his half-drunken attraction to this beautiful southern belle. It had happened as easily and naturally as he recalled the dance steps, even making some up as he went along. The three-step sway and turn that had her gliding around the dance floor. It felt so natural, her hands in his, their arms touching, her body twirling away and then coming back tight against him.

  She was such a nice distraction, both from his work and from his inner demons. He needed the break. And it seemed like she needed one, too. Her ex-boyfriend was an absolute puke of a man. Maybe even physically abusive. Matthias was glad to be touching her now, softly, with care, the only kind of touch she deserved. And when he made eye contact, it was with a loving glance. Not the meth-head aggression of . . . what was his name? Jason?

  Matthias suddenly made a little misstep, his feet fumbling the wrong way. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m just making it up as I go.”

  She laughed. “You’re doing great.”

  “I’m only used to the fast stuff. They didn’t want us dancing so close in high school.”

  “And you weren’t this drunk in high school, huh?”

  “Why? Am I being sloppy?”

  “No, but I am. I’m really rusty. I never do this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, this. Not just dancing, or slow dancing, but I don’t know . . .”

  He smiled. “Come on, what?”

  “I don’t get out much.”

  “I’d never guess,” Matthias said. “You seem like a natural.”

  “A natural floozy?”

  “We’re just dancing, Laurel.”

  The song fizzled out to its ending, leaving Matthias feeling a little awkward with how their conversation just left off. All too quickly she had drawn her hands away from his, her body separating quickly, her face looking a little embarrassed.

  “Thanks for the dance,” he said.

  “Yeah, thank you.”

  “Hey, why don’t we head somewhere else? I can grab you a bite to eat.”

  “It’s quarter past one.”

  That was a shock. He didn’t usually stay out so late anymore. Hell, he usually didn’t go out at all. But he was more than surprised how quickly the time, and drinks, had passed by.

  “Maybe I should go,” she said. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow, and I’m already up way past my bed time.”

  “Yeah.” He walked her off the dance floor. Is this where he should ask for her number? Part of him wanted to, the part that wanted to stay up late with her, to learn more about who she was, to stretch the night out as long as possible. But she’d already been through a lot. Did she really need another guy obsessing over her? Maybe his attention had been borderline unwanted in the first place.

  “But,” she said. “Maybe you can walk me to my car?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can definitely do that.”

  “I think it’s been long enough for Jason to go home. But you never know. He can be kinda crazy.”

  “Well, just let him get crazy tonight and he’ll see where that gets him.”

  “Where? In a hospital? But seriously, though, I don’t want any trouble with you guys.”

  “I know.”

  Laurel bit her lip. “I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  “It’ll be fine. I just want to make sure you get to your car okay.”

  She looked almost sullen.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I walked here.”

  He grinned. “Well, that’s actually good news, because you’re kinda hammered.”

  “So are you.” She pushed him playfully.

  They stood outside in the fresh night air. It was cooler, but still humid. The ground was wet from a late-night rain.

  “Do you live very far?” he asked. “I’m at a hotel two blocks from here. I could walk you home?”

  Her lips were pursed together as she looked him over.

  “Sorry, is that weird?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not weird.”

  “Listen, I . . . I like you, and, I’d love to get your number. But I’m not trying to force myself into your house.”

  “I know. I like you, too.”

  “I kinda feel bad, asking, but I just . . .”

  She interrupted him with her smile, and the digits of her phone number spoken through it. And then she said, “Don’t feel bad. And don’t forget to call me sometime, too.”

  He wasn’t sure how much time he’d have for that, how intense his investigation would be. So far, Jackson had left it pretty open-ended, but he couldn’t see anything longer than a few days. Maybe a week at the most. Where would he fit Laurel in? Maybe they could do lunch.

  And then he felt it, a blast of bright light shooting through his head, followed by pain, his head blasting forward and with the sound of a dense, hard thud. The vibrations ripped down his spine and he tumbled, dizzy. The pain. The stars in his eyes fading so that he could see where he was. In a parking lot, staring at his feet. Listening to a woman scream. He turned around just in time to dodge another blow, an object swinging fast overhead. A baseball bat. It was held by that kid in the bar, the same bastard he’d threatened to beat up.

  “Jason! Stop!”
r />   Matthias was on him fast, like a spider collapsing around his prey, his arms dangling over him and wrapping him up, legs sweeping out his until they were both on the ground where the baseball bat had no use, where Matthias’ fists took over, pummeling the face of his attacker until it was red and wet with blood. He heard little sounds coming out of him, little bubbling, babbling pleas for help as Matthias finally laid into him. One knee on his chest now, holding him down, the little man’s scrawny arms swinging away aimlessly and uselessly as the bat that he once held rolled away from them down a slant in the parking lot.

  A baseball bat. This punk hit him in the head with a fucking baseball bat.

  As it sunk in, Matthias felt the rage bubbling to the surface, the need for a few more strikes to the guy’s already-bleeding nose. But then he heard more of that blood-curdling screaming from Laurel. And his attention shifted instantly, from rage and revenge to concern for her. She’d already seen enough crap tonight. And he’d promised that everything would be fine.

  And everything would be fine. He had this little puke pinned to the ground, almost crying, his face a bloody wreck.

  But she was hysterical. Screaming. He could feel her energy even stronger than Jason’s.

  “Laurel, it’s okay. It’s over.” He shook Jason hard. “Right?” His head flopped around his shoulders like a rag doll. “Right?!”

  Jason was coughing, unable to get anything sensible out of his mouth but little gurgles.

  “Fuck this,” Matthias muttered, slamming him down and cracking his head against the pavement one last time before getting up and checking on Laurel—who was still holding her hands to her mouth in one big silent cry.

  “It’s alright,” said Matthias. “Let’s get the cops here and then we’ll figure everything out. You’ll get a restraining order, do everything officially and legally so this won’t ever happen again.” Matthias looked at Jason, crouching down to him. “You hear that? You’re done.”