Anarchy Found (SuperAlpha, #1)(30)

I could scream and someone would come rescue me. But how the hell would I show my face at work tomorrow?

So… I walk forward and take the first right, go past the second alcove, and then turn right again.

And simple as you please, there I am. Standing in the center of the maze.

“What a letdown, huh?” bike boy says from the other side of a huge statue of a satellite dish. It’s fifteen feet in diameter and mounted on a pedestal ten feet high. Spotlights on the ground point up at it, highlighting the greenish copper patina.

“I expected more from Thomas. A Greek god or something. A f*cking minotaur, maybe. But this piece of shit?” He stops looking at the disappointing sculpture and drags his gaze to meet mine. “He’s let me down before, though. So what’s new?”

“You know Mr. Brooks?” Brooks doesn’t look like the kind of guy who hangs around serial killers. But then again… I have no idea. God, I wish I knew the people of this town better. Having no history sucks.

“Damn,” bike boy says. “I didn’t get a chance to look at you inside.” And then he looks me up and down like he’s a wolf and wants to eat me up.

I swallow down the apprehension I have about being alone with this man in the middle of a giant puzzle and start with the basics. “What’s your name? And why did you… do all those terrible things to me?”

He gives me half a smile. And when I say half a smile, I mean only half there. Like he’s at war with himself and good and evil are the same thing. “How much do you remember?”

“Most of it leading up to the…” I was just about to say kiss. I grunt and shake my head. “Drugs. What were they? Memory inhibitors, obviously. But what exactly? So I know whether you’ve damaged me permanently in some way.”

“Well, obviously”—he laughs, repeating my own word—“I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything, in fact. If you want to know, well, Detective, you’re gonna have to put in a little more effort. Come find me. You made me that promise and I’m gonna hold you to it.”

“I did find you,” I remind him, spreading my arms wide. “And what makes you think you’re going anywhere but jail tonight?”

“Jail for what? You have evidence?” He takes a step forward and I have to force myself not to instinctively step back at his approach.

“I’m sure I could muster some up.”

“Aha,” he says, tsking his tongue and pointing a black-gloved finger at me. “I see you’re catching on already. If the CCPD doesn’t have any evidence that’s what they generally do. Just muster some up. Well, I’ve got a pretty good lawyer, gun girl. So take your best shot.”

Gun girl. “In this case it would be true. I don’t need to fake it.”

All this time he’s still inching closer and everything in my body says to run. Run, run, run. As far away from this man as I can get. But the fight in me doesn’t give up so easy. The fight in me likes to stand and give it my best. The fight in me can be stupid at times.

“So arrest me, gun girl. Is that who you are? Their gun girl?” He winks. “Or mine?”

“I’m no one’s girl.”

He smiles a charming smile, his eyes bright with possibilities. “You sure about that?”

“Why come here tonight? Feeling guilty? You’re some kind of psycho who wants to play a game? Am I your opponent? Do you really want to play with me? Because I assure you—”

And then here he is. Right in front of me. Standing so tall and ominous, I have to look up and take a gulp of air.

“Who says I’m playing?” His face is shadowed, but I can picture his features. That unruly dark hair, wet from the rain. The cold wind whipping it up around his face. His equally dark eyes with that spark of amber in them. His lips, brushing against my neck in that cave. His breath, tickling me and fooling me into thinking he wasn’t going to hurt me.

Scary, creepy f*cking guy. Yeah, he’s got serial killer written all over him. So why are you still standing here talking to him?

He’s tall, and I feel so small looking up at him, so I lower my eyes. His suit is tailored to perfection so that the white shirt under his jacket pulls across his chest, revealing hard muscles underneath.

He reaches up and I flinch, look back up at his face. This makes him smile. I force myself to stand absolutely still as he rests the back of his gloved knuckles against my cheek and then sweeps them downward. “I love the dress, Molly.”

Jesus Christ. He’s coming on to me. “Why did you come here?”

“And I love what’s underneath it too.”

I grab his wrist and twist my body, ready to throw him over my shoulder, but he grabs me by the waist and twirls me around—pressing his chest into my back, holding me close as he whispers in my ear. I freeze. The memory of that kiss back in his cave is the only thing on my mind.

“I’ve missed you more than you will ever know.”

“Let go of me,” I snarl, turning my body. But he grabs both of my wrists and pins them to my stomach.

“Tell me what happened that night.”

“You drugged me!”

“No, gun girl. That other night.”

“What other night?” Jesus. Has he done this to me before?