Page 41 of Fighting With Light
But sitting here with Liam, he wants to hear what I have to say. He wants to know what I’m interested in and why I hate the life I was born into. Very few people understand what that is like and he is someone who does. Though he’s the son of a corrupt congressman who works with my mobster father, our worlds aren’t that different—neither of us are within the law.
“How is your wine?” he asks. I hum and take another sip, and he stares back unabashedly. My heart beats harder and my blood feels like it’s moving a little faster through my veins, like a race car on a track.
Based on the way he handled kidnapping and interrogating me, it was obvious he had done that before. But what makes it clear to me is his willingness to risk everything for answers at the expense of himself for his family. Ben could have come in that night when Liam gave me that wine and shot him in the head, not knowing what was going on. His death would have been a waste and the thought of that makes my heart feel like it’s exploding, shredding the butterflies flying around in my stomach.
Liam Coldwell is a trained killer. He doesn’t have to tell me. I know how they walk, talk, and act. I’ve been around them my whole life and my brothers are the same way. It doesn’t bother me, though. He’s this way for a reason. That’s one part of his story I’m dying to ask about. We haven’t known each otherthatlong, but I’m sure it’s a conversation that’s by no means appropriate for the setting.
He hands the waiter his black card to pay the bill. “Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asks.
I nod again.
He smiles softly and the place between his eyebrows crinkles. “Why are you so quiet?”
I take my glass, pouring the last bit of delicious wine down my throat. “I’ve been thinking,” I tell him. A moment later, the receipt is brought back. Liam signs it, drops a hundred euros on the table, and holds his hand out for me. I take it and don’t let go until I’m seated in the car, and he’s closing the door.
He jumps in the Porsche and takes off, driving it like it’s a go-kart. “Are you going to tell me what you’ve been thinking about?” he asks me before returning to the dark road ahead of us.
The anticipation is so thick in the car it’s almost hard to breathe. “I was thinking about a lot of things. But I was mainly thinking about you.”
He chuckles and the tone sizzles down my spine. “Do I occupy your thoughts that much, princess?”
I stare at his dark profile, wondering if I should ask this question, but we’re both stuck in the car; there’s nowhere for him to run.
“We’ve talked about the things you do, but why is Liam Coldwell the way he is?” I ask.
His jaw ticks and his hand tightens over the supple leather steering wheel.
“Why would you want to know anything about that?” His muscles tense and he won’t look at me.
“Because I want to know you, Liam. I know you didn’t learn to tie people up and interrogate them from a BDSM class.”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Is that something you’re interested in? Maybe we could take a class together,” he says.
“Stop trying to change the subject,” I command.
He groans and I feel the car speed up.
I’m not worried about it because I find myself trusting him more and more and that is very stupid. It feels like I’m walking through a field of landmines and another one could explode at any second. My father, his, anyone could end this in the blink of an eye.
“Speaking of changing the subject, has Ben contacted you?” Liam asks.
I sigh, annoyed. “Yes, he’s texted me every day and I told him I’m fine.”
“I’m sure he didn’t like that.”
“No, he doesn’t, and I know he’s going to find us. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t yet.” Liam glances at the rearview mirror and changes lanes. “Answer me, Liam.”
“I don’t want to talk about my past. Don’t you know enough?”
“Enoughandallare two different things.” I can tell it’s painful for him to talk about and I don’t intend to make him relive things he wants to leave in the past, but I would like to know how a son of a congressman, who lives a thousand miles away from him, is a professional athlete and well versed in other skills that men in my world commonly train for.
“My mom wanted us to be able to protect ourselves because she knew who your father was, and she knew mine was working with him. She figured it was only a matter of time until my father pissed off yours enough that he would come after us.”
I accept the answer even though it makes my dinner want to come back up. My father is ruthless, and there is no doubt in my mind he would go after a woman and her children.
“We didn’t have friends, we had each other. She brought in…trainers to teach us to protect ourselves. Mom wanted us to learn a sport so we could get involved in something and make friends. My assumption is she was worried we would become unruly, savage boys who didn’t know how to communicate with normal people. I picked surfing, but I also got into rock climbing. I didn’t bother with college, it was difficult to finish my GED. As for computers, I’ve been interested in them since I was young and taught myself almost everything I know. Is that what you wanted to hear?” he asks.
“You really were trained for this,” I say, surprised. His shoulder lifts and he glances at the rearview mirror again. Then presses harder on the acceleration.
