Total pages in book: 172
Estimated words: 157460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“How much does she know?”
Just the quiet in Czar’s voice told Player everything he needed to know.
“Our childhood. Our training. That we were used as assets for our country. No details on anyone but me. Obviously only my memories. But she knows we aren’t saints even now.” He wasn’t going to lie. “She’s mine, Czar, and I’ll stand for her.”
“Does she know that she’s yours? Does she know what you standing for her means?”
Player shook his head. “I was up front with you about what an ass I was. I haven’t exactly made the best impression on her since, but I’m not going to let her get away. She’s the one. My only. I’m absolutely certain. If you want, I can take her away from here. She won’t like it, but she’d go to protect Anat if she thought it necessary.”
Czar shook his head. “You wrap it up fast, Player. I mean it. Get her to commit and make it solid. In the meantime, we have to figure this bomb thing out fast. I want you to keep her in bed with you. Write everything down, every detail, and compare notes. The two of you go over the notes and then bring them to me. If you think it’s too dangerous for you to be in Anat’s house, then we’ll set you up in your home.”
“I want to move out, but I don’t know if I can persuade Zyah yet. She thinks her grandmother is still in danger from the gang of thieves. Code said, word is the cops don’t think they’ve moved on, that they’re just lying low. They haven’t hit anyone since Jonas stopped by last week, but Code thinks the cops have it right.”
Czar nodded. “That’s what he said. No dead body left behind. Get Zyah’s grandmother on your side when it comes to you and Zyah. She’ll be your greatest asset,” Czar added. “And Player, get it done fast. Zyah can’t be left running around loose knowing about our club members.”
Player didn’t protest. Czar was giving him a reprieve.
“You should have told me about the byproduct with your gift.”
“I felt like such a loser already.”
“Because of the bombs.”
“So many of them. Sorbacov took us to so many parties. After the first one, I knew what we were doing. I made them. Carried them in. You placed them. You covered for me when I couldn’t put on a party face so many times.” Player tried not to think about that five-year-old boy looking at the rubble and the bright party dress with blood splashed across it caught under the bricks and dirt.
“I shouldn’t have let them read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I should have known what it was doing to you. You were always so willing to create the characters for them.”
“It was the only thing I could contribute,” Player said.
“That’s such bullshit,” Czar said. “You saved our butts so many times.”
TWELVE
Player should have headed straight back to the house, but he needed the wind in his face, Zyah’s arms around him and the Harley between his legs. He’d asked her first if she minded a ride down the highway. She’d said she definitely wanted to ride, although she’d indicated that she wanted to talk to him where they couldn’t be overheard. He needed the time to clear his head.
Czar had made it clear he expected Player to handle Zyah. To bring her into the fold. Zyah wasn’t the kind of woman one just handled. He was going to have to prove himself to her. He had so many mountains to climb as far as she was concerned, it was laughable. He wasn’t about to tell them all to Czar. He rubbed his palm over the back of her gloved hand. It was such an experience to ride the highway with her. A good one. He felt as if the wind washed him clean.
It wasn’t as if Czar had excused him—there was no excuse. It didn’t matter to him that he’d been five, a child, when he’d built those bombs, thinking of them as toys, as a way to climb into his mind and escape from what was happening to his body; once he found out, he could have stopped. He hadn’t. He’d kept building them. He’d kept carrying them into the places Sorbacov insisted he carry them. He’d done so when he was six. When he was seven.
Player. In his mind, Zyah’s voice sounded tender. Gentle. Just a brush, like fingertips skimming down his spine in the most intimate way. You were a child. Stop condemning yourself.
Her gloved hand opened against his jacket so that her palm cupped his abdomen, and she rubbed soothingly, giving him a feeling of being cherished. Player had never experienced that particular emotion and at first didn’t identify it with an actual word, but when cherished crept into his mind, his entire body reacted. He didn’t deserve her. He would never deserve her. No matter what Anat or anyone else said, no man deserved her.