Storm Gathering

  “Sure.” Then, completely out of the blue, she kicked up, nailing him in the jaw.

  His head jerked back, and he stumbled, stars lighting his vision. Pain radiated through his skull. Shock kept him from reacting.

  She punched him in the balls, and only by turning at the last second did he save his boys. She shoved him and ran behind him, heading into the hallway.

  He turned, his mouth gaping. What the holy fuck?

  The house was currently empty. She ran through the living room, and he set off in pursuit, keeping his strides long but easy.

  At the front door, she struggled but finally threw it open.

  He continued after her, into the rain, watching her run out onto the once busy street. Rain smashed down, matting her hair to her face within seconds. She turned crazily around, obviously having no idea where to run.

  She gulped in and bunched to head north.

  “That's the wrong way.” He strode down the wide bricked driveway, keeping in control. As always.

  She paused and looked at him. The rain plastered her T-shirt to her front, showing full breasts. Erect nipples.

  He swallowed and forced his gaze to her face.

  Two soldiers wearing the black T-shirts of Merc soldiers paused as they patrolled out of a side lawn to the south. Two more came into sight from the north.

  She took in the four soldiers, and her shoulders went back instead of down. Damn, he admired her grit. “You can't get away, Moe,” he said, almost gently. “Come back here.”

  “No.” She shook her head, her thick hair spraying even more rain water.

  There was nowhere to run, but she wouldn't back down. God, she had the heart of a warrior. His blood beat faster through his veins, and his groin tightened. Maybe someday they could meet up again on even footing when she wasn't his prisoner. When he could make a move. She was something special, and it was a fucking tragedy he’d had to meet her like this. “Now, Moe.” Without waiting for her to give in, he moved relentlessly toward her.

  She swiveled, looking for some sort of escape.

  He grabbed her bicep before she could run, holding firmly but keeping careful not to bruise her. “That was a hell of a kick, lady.”

  She shoved at him and looked up, rain sliding over her stunning features. “You going to retaliate?”

  “Yes.” He started walking back toward the mansion, not allowing her to hamper their progress. Oh, she was a fighter, but he was twice her size and had her in strength. Even so, the kick had been impressive. “You are grounded from any books, papers, or magazines for twenty-four hours.”

  “Grounded?” She snorted, trying unsuccessfully to yank away.

  “Yeah.” The woman was a thinker, and it'd drive her crazy not to be able to read anything. Television was long gone. “And my earlier threat about feeding you stands. I will.”

  She shoved him again, this time moving in. “We're not done here, Grey.”

  He looked down at her pretty eyes, her words diving in and sinking deep. “I think you're right,” he murmured quietly. Damn, was she right.

  Chapter Five

  If society ends up starving in the aftermath of Scorpius, make sure you blame Greyson Storm. The asshole.

  —Maureen Shadow, Notes

  Maureen paced her room, her gaze on the darkened ocean. It had been two fucking weeks since she was kidnapped, and Greyson wouldn't even take her to the greenhouses in the area. Apparently rival gangs had attacked four times, and he was having trouble keeping Merc territory safe.

  Rain pattered down. Again. All it did was rain.

  She had to get out of there. The more time she stayed with Greyson, the more she actually liked the guy. He was patient and seemed loyal to his men. She'd heard he and Damon talking that morning about some lost women who'd offered their bodies for food. Greyson had taken them personally into Vanguard territory and left them.

  During one of her escape attempts, she had run into some teenage girls who'd been trying to barter with their bodies. Greyson had hauled her back before she could discover what happened to them. Now she was thinking he'd taken them to safety, although he wouldn't admit it when she questioned him.

  The Mercs were dangerous and tough…but something told her they weren't as evil as advertised.

  The man in charge was funny and smart. They'd taken to playing chess once in a while, and the guy was good. And way beyond sexy. She had to stop looking at him with interest.

  He was still blackmailing Raze, damn it. How could she be attracted to a guy extorting her brother? Not that Greyson had ever made a move. Not one. Sometimes when he looked at her, those odd eyes heated, but he'd never even made an improper suggestion.

  She sniffed. That was good.

  A soft knock sounded on her door, and she whirled around. “What?”

  A very gray head poked in. “Hi, girly. We got some new bourbon, and the boss won't be back till late. Wanna have a snootful?”

  She couldn't help but relax. Atticus Werner was an eighty-year-old soldier and a truly excellent cook. He was one of the few men Greyson allowed in the main mansion. “You're not afraid I'll make a break for it?” She moved toward him.

  He grinned, showing a large gap in his front teeth. “Greyson ups the guards around the mansion and beach when he's not around. You wouldn't make it four yards before getting caught. And you don't want to get grounded and not get to read again.” His faded blue eyes twinkled as he pushed the door open wide. “Come keep an old man company. We can play gin rummy.”

  “You already owe me three million dollars,” Moe retorted, following the man through the house to the breakfast nook. “Is it just us in here?”

  Atticus nodded. “Yep. Damon went with Grey.”

  “Where are they?” she asked, not that she cared. Yeah. She didn't care at all.

  “Somethin' going on up north,” Atticus said, shoving his stocky bulk around the table where rich people once dined. He wore a red shirt with purple pants and green socks.

  “Are you color blind?” Moe asked, noting his clothes.

  He nodded. “Think so. Why?”

  “No reason.” Moe reached for the cards already on the table as Atticus poured two generous glasses of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, a twenty-year-old Kentucky bourbon whiskey. “Whoa. Where did you get the good stuff?”

  Atticus raised a glass and sniffed, humming softly. “God, that is good. Boys went raiding the fancier areas in Bakersfield a few days ago. I waited to share this when you could.”

  Maureen took her glass, drinking slowly. Warmth and deliciousness exploded down her throat. “That was very kind of you.”

  “Yeah, well, Grey won't let you drink alcohol.” Atticus took a healthy swallow.

  She frowned. “That's true, but we haven't had any booze in this house anyway. What's up with that?”

  Atticus snorted. “I think he wants all his faculties around you. Ditto the other way around.”

  She paused with the glass almost to her mouth again. “What?”

  Atticus nodded at the cards. “Just deal.”

  Huh. She did so and quickly put her hand together. “Your men are very loyal to Grey.”

  Atticus nodded, discarding. “Yeah. When all hell broke loose, he found a place for us. With food and water and weapons.” He took a card.

  “But no women.” She shook her head and took another drink.

  “Says women cause distractions.” Atticus drew from the deck. “He's right, of course.”

  Yeah, but that was crazy. “You have to form families again.” She needed a three of clubs.

  “Right now we're still in fight mode,” Atticus said, refilling their glasses.

  Obviously. Moe kept drinking and playing, hour after hour. Finally, the cards were too blurry to see. “I, ar, think I'm deeerunk.”

  Atticus chuckled. “Me too. This was fun. Don't tell Grey.”

  “Bad Grey,” she slurred, swaying on the seat. “I can't wait until I leave here.”

  “I
'll miss you. We all will.” Atticus stumbled to his feet and reached to help her up.

  She stood and fell against the table, slowly righting herself. “Greyson won't miss me.”

  Atticus gently took her arm like a guy at a ball. “Yessss, he will. Grey is calmer when you're around. Happier. I even heard him laugh once.”

  She tripped and regained her footing. “Huh. He's a butthead.”

  Atticus laughed, the sound high. “He's the king of buttheads here.”

  Humor rippled through her, and she laughed. Why that was so funny, she'd never know. But it really was. She fell against her door and opened it. “Night, A. Thanks for the good booze.”

  “You got it.” Even though he was drunk, he turned the key once she was inside—locking her in as usual.

  She paused at the open doors to the deck. Usually somebody shut and locked those before she went to bed. The cool air brushed in, the scent of rain competing with the salty smell of the ocean. She moved to the door, watching it pour.

  Where was Greyson? She didn't want to care. Not at all. But was he okay?

  * * *

  Greyson picked himself off the ground, his head spinning and his gut roiling. Swinging out, he hit the attacker in the temple, and the guy went down. They'd found the nest of Rippers, insane sociopaths, about twenty minutes before, and the fight had been brutal.

  A shot echoed, and a guy to his left fell. An enemy.

  “Nice shot, Damon,” Grey said, stumbling toward two women in the back of the garage. Their bodies were already decaying. Had probably been dead for a week. But one of the Rippers had been fucking a body when they arrived, and Grey had thought he could save at least one of them.

  Damon grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the door. “It's too late for them.”

  It was too late for many people. Grey's gut clenched. One of the women had been a kid. Probably only fourteen. “Fuck.”

  Damon shoved him into the rain. Pain lanced through his head, and he swayed.

  “Shit.” Damon turned him and tilted his head, using a flashlight. “You took a hell of a hit to the temple. You okay?”

  Fuck no, he wasn't okay. The entire world was spinning around him. “Fine.”

  “Okay. I'll drive. We're less than an hour out. These guys only had some coke, and I grabbed it for the infirmary. Can't be too picky.” Damon jogged for the truck, waiting until Greyson slid into the passenger side. Then they were off. “The other two trucks should be home any minute.”

  “Home,” Greyson muttered, leaning his battered head back on the seat. Headquarters had seemed like home for two weeks now. Ever since Maureen had arrived. “She's gonna be pissed if I don't turn her over once her brother succeeds.”

  “Yeah.” Damon drove faster. “You could ask her to stay.”

  “Right.” Grey shoved old pictures of Zach Barter off the seat. He was starting to doubt he'd find the asshole, and nobody he talked to even knew who the guy was. “She won't stay.”

  “Probably not,” Damon agreed.

  Grey reached into the jockey box for some bourbon the scouts had found a few days before. They'd found five bottles of the good stuff. The really good stuff. “I want her to stay.”

  “She looks at you like she's intrigued.” Damon took a fast turn. “Sometimes she looks at you like she wants to kill you, though.”

  Grey snorted and opened the bottle. “I’ve noticed.” It wavered in front of his eyes, morphing. Concussions sucked.

  Damon cleared his throat. “I ain't a doctor, but I'm sure you shouldn't drink with a bruised brain.”

  Grey tipped back his head and took a very healthy swallow. “Like you said, you ain't a doctor.” He handed over the bottle. “I have two more, and we're drinking them before anybody else gets a chance.”

  Damon drank it down. “God forbid we share.”

  Greyson snorted and drank more. “I totally agree.”

  “So, if you want her to stay, why not make a move?” Damon asked, slowing down for what looked like a pile of bear furs.

  Greyson tried to focus, but only one of his eyes was working. His body felt all right, though. “I can't make a move. I kidnapped her, so she has no choice in anything. We're not on equal footing, and she can't make a fair decision.” Though man, he had to stop having wet dreams about her. She was all he thought about some days, and that had to end. Right now. “You know?”

  Damon took the bottle. “I guess. Just never figured you for an equal partner type.”

  Greyson turned toward his best friend. Hell. His only friend. “What do you mean?”

  “Thought you'd be more of an I Tarzan, You Jane, type,” Damon said slowly. “No offense.”

  Huh. Grey took the bottle and downed enough bourbon that the pain in his head finally subsided. “Only one person can be in charge in any situation. That includes personally,” he muttered.

  Damon glanced his way. “Yeah. That's what I thought.” He frowned.

  Greyson sighed. “You're right. I mean, about me. But that's after a decision is made. Maureen can't decide to be with me because she doesn't have the freedom to do that.” Fuck, all of this talking was making his headache come back. “Enough Dr. Phil bullshit.”

  “All right,” Damon said. “Let’s just drink.”

  Greyson nodded and finished the first bottle. Then he opened a second.

  After they'd started the third, his body went numb. Finally.

  “We're here,” Damon said, pulling into the driveway.

  “Going for a walk on the beach to clear my head,” Grey said, shoving open the door and falling on his ass. Shit, his brain hurt. Rain pelted down on him, slightly helping to clear his head.

  Damon leaned over the console and looked down. “Booze or concussion?”

  “Both.” Using the tire, he climbed to his feet. “See ya tomorrow.” Without waiting for an answer, he stumbled around the side of the house and headed toward the ocean.

  Clouds covered the moon and threw rain onto the sand, but the chill was serving to finally focus him. He made it to the deck before he noticed that Moe's outside doors were open. Soft candlelight filtered outside. What the hell?

  He paused.

  She stood in the doorway, watching the storm pummel the ocean. The candles lit her from behind, making her hair glow. Those blue eyes cut through the darkness somehow.

  He moved for her, unable to stop himself. “Your doors should be closed.”

  She jumped and then pivoted. “Greyson.”

  Was that relief in her voice? He stepped closer. “Did you hear me?”

  She crossed her arms. “I'm not deaf.” Her voice slurred a little.

  He blinked. Was his hearing fucked up, too? “I know. Sorry.”

  She shook her head. “Do not be nice to me.”

  “Okay.” He wanted her to smile again like she'd done the other day. Just once. “I'm sorry I had to kidnap you.”

  She huffed out air. “You didn't have to do anything.”

  Yeah, that was true. “You look like an angel with the candles behind you.”

  She swayed. “Greyson.”

  Man, his brain was screwed up. Too much booze and fighting. So he reached for the door. “Go inside, Moe. I'll lock up.”

  “No.” She pushed at him.

  No? He didn't move. “Yes.”

  She stepped into him. “You like me.”

  The scent of wild bluebells covered him, tempting him. His body went from zero to a hundred in a second flat, and his cock woke up like it had a place to go. “I do like you,” he mumbled, wishing she'd stop splitting into two people in front of his eyes.

  She ran her hands up his chest. “I don't want to like you.”

  “Don't blame you.” Her hands created too much warmth. Man, he wanted to be warm. Step back. He really needed to step back.

  She leaned up and nibbled beneath his chin.

  Desire cut through him with a painful sharpness. “We can't. Really.”

  “I know,” she whispered, pres
sing her full breasts against his chest. “Kiss me, just once.”

  He couldn't say no. So he lowered his mouth, taking hers. Sweetness. So soft and sweet. She made a sound, one he'd never forget, in the back of her throat. Then she kissed him back.

  At that point, he was lost.

  Completely.

  Chapter Six

  I survived being kidnapped first by Greyson and then the president. But I’m…off. Don't know why.

  —Maureen Shadow, Notes

  Present Day

  Vanguard Territory in inner city LA

  * * *

  Maureen Shadow wandered through the Vanguard headquarters’ soup kitchen area and into what apparently had once been a free medical clinic. Now it was the health center for the headquarters with the main pseudo-hospital located inner territory. She'd been in Vanguard territory for more than two weeks, and for some reason, she still felt like a visitor.

  When Scorpius began killing millions and then billions, Jax Mercury had taken seven square blocks in inner city Los Angeles and created a sanctuary for survivors. He ruled with compassion and an iron fist, and to be included in Vanguard was to be almost safe in a deadly world. Maureen's brother, Raze, was one of Jax's top lieutenants.

  She kind of missed the ocean. And Greyson. Maybe.

  Three battered chairs remained empty in the waiting area, and she moved past them and the long reception counter to a hallway. “Tace?” she called out, her hands trembling.

  Tace Justice, a former Army medic, poked his head out of an examination room. His hair was a light brown and his eyes the sizzling blue of a Texas sky, matching his accent. “Mornin’, ma'am.”

  She forced a smile. “Was your hair really blond before Scorpius?”

  He nodded. “Yep. Apparently many a folk has darker hair and even different colored eyes after surviving the bacterium.”

  She'd heard that some Ebola survivors had different colored eyes afterward. “Um, okay.”