Page 16 of Brass
She leans against the brick wall, rain slicking her hair flat, clothes glued to her body in a way I shouldn’t be noticing. She’s cut, bruised, filthy, and running on fumes—yet still, she carries herself like she’s carved from iron. Defiant. Untouchable.
My pulse spikes anyway. Every drop sliding down her throat, every stubborn tilt of her chin, sparks in places I’d sworn were locked down. She’s sexy as hell, dangerous as hell, and every inch of her is pushing buttons I shouldn’t have.
I was supposed to be on a flight back to Seattle right now. Quiet seat, bad coffee, maybe a bourbon if the flight attendant didn’t hate her job. Instead, I’m here, half-drowned in a back alley, holding up a woman who looks like sin wrapped in barbed wire.
And if I have to admit it—which I won’t—this beats the hell out of First Class.
“Wait here.” I move to the alley entrance, scanning the street. A yellow cab approaches, light on. I step out and raise myhand with the authoritative gesture that somehow always gets a response—a combination of military bearing and pure certainty.
The cab slows, pulls to the curb. I return to Celeste, who’s watching me with narrowed eyes.
“Your chariot awaits.” I offer my arm for support.
She hesitates, then takes it, her fingers surprisingly strong as they grip my forearm. We move awkwardly toward the waiting taxi, her injured knee forcing a limping gait that I adjust my stride to match.
The cabbie eyes us suspiciously as we approach—two bedraggled figures emerging from an alley in the rain, covered in tunnel grime, one visibly injured. Can’t blame him for the wariness.
I open the back door and help Celeste into the car before circling to the other side. After the tunnels and rain, the warm interior of the cab feels like luxury, and the familiar smell of air freshener and upholstery is oddly comforting.
“Where are we going?” Celeste asks as I settle beside her, careful to leave appropriate space between us.
“Somewhere they can’t find us.”
“I still don’t trust you.” The words lack their earlier heat and are spoken more from principle than conviction.
“Noted.” I meet her gaze directly. “But you’re already in the damn cab.”
Her mouth quirks again—that not-quite-smile that does strange things to my focus.
I give the driver an address for a small two-star hotel in Georgetown.
The cab pulls away from the curb, its wipers battling the downpour. I scan the streets as we move through the city, checking mirrors and tracking any vehicle that maintains position behind us for more than two turns. These are old habits. They are necessary habits.
Celeste watches me watching the streets. Her analytical gaze misses nothing.
“Do you ever stop?” she asks quietly.
“Stop, what?”
“Scanning. Assessing. Looking for threats.”
“No.” Simple truth. The day I stop scanning is the day I or someone under my protection ends up dead.
We fall into silence, the cab’s heater gradually warming the space, fogging the windows slightly. The rhythmic sweep of wipers and hum of tires on wet pavement creates a strangely intimate atmosphere after the chaos we’ve just escaped.
Her breathing brushes the space between us, steady until the cab jolts over a pothole and she gasps, sharp, clutching at her ribs. Dust and damp cling to everything, but beneath it clings a thread of citrus—faint, stubborn, cutting through the grime to reach me. It coils tighter than I want, every small sound, every shift reminding me she’s there, too close.
Her hand rests on the seat between us, pale against the dark upholstery. The cab lurches into a turn, and my palm skids across the leather until it collides with hers.
The jolt that shoots up my arm damn near short-circuits me. Her eyes fly to mine, wide, startled, like we’ve both touched a live wire. For one suspended beat, neither of us move—skin pressed to skin, heat sparking hotter than the cramped dark ever did.
Which is saying something, considering the last time we were this close, she was practically riding my face in a ventilation shaft. And somehow, this—this stupid brush of fingers—is worse. Way worse.
We yank apart at the same instant, too fast, too obvious, the contact gone but the charge still humming in the air between us.
I clear my throat, reaching for my phone. Time to call this in. The situation has escalated beyond what I can handle solo, especially with her injuries requiring medical attention.
“Who are you calling?” She watches my movements with that journalist’s attention to detail.
