Page 3 of Kiss Marry Kill
Star Island, population ninety-eight, was a small man-made island right off the coast of South Beach, where only the filthiest of the rich and famous resided. There was only one way in or out, and Jax instructed Joey to make sure he’d have full access onto the heavily secured island.
With little patience left, Jax almost yelled when he saw security guards forcing reporters and visitors off the island. He was ready to fight his way in if he had to. Fortunately, Joey had seen this obstacle coming, and had cleared a way for Jax to ride straight in as soon as the guard saw him pull up. Joey had always been this way—detailed, thorough, and analytical, where Jax was mostly a hothead who reacted first and apologized later. Or at least that’s what his commanding officers had said about him when he was awarded a Purple Heart. Sometimes action needed to be taken without time to plan and analyze, and Jax was a man of action and passion—fear rarely factored in.
A cluster of police cars was all the evidence he needed to discover which house was Megan’s. As he parked his bike, his phone signaled an incoming text from Joey. Apparently Megan had been busy since the last time he saw her. The brief dossier Joey had quickly compiled said she was now the lead singer of a very successful band called TNT. Pride soared through Jax’s body when he saw her net worth and all her accolades, including a recent Grammy win.
This was a far cry from the picket fence life he’d imagined.
His Megan was living in a huge house on an exclusive island, and she was a damn rock star.
House.
That was an understatement if there ever was one.
It was a white Spanish-style mansion with red barrel tiles lining the roof and intricate iron work over the windows, complete with a very elaborate tropical garden and rows of palm trees lining the long walkway up to the regal double keystone stairway. It was hard to say which was more astounding: the mansion or the garden. Between the palm trees and the fuchsia bougainvilleas, there were rows of well-groomed ficus and topiaries, making it look like something you’d find hidden in a Caribbean island secluded from the rest of the world. And because of the heavy security and the small number of residents on Star Island, this was as close to a tropical paradise as one could find in Miami.
His first thought was that protecting a house of this magnitude was going to be a bitch, especially with all the trees and extravagant landscaping.
“Excuse me, sir.” A police officer stopped him as he ascended the staircase.
Luckily, with the jobs he’d done in the last few months, he’d become all too familiar with local law enforcement. Being that this was a high-profile case, Marco Martinez, the chief of police, was nearby shouting orders when he saw Jax.
“Irons. What’re you doing here?”
“Friend of the victim, and possible new client. Bring me up to speed.”
Marco tipped his chin and Jax followed. “Not sure yet. Here’s what we know. Victim has previously reported two prior incidents with a male named Ryan, last name unknown, six-foot, approximately two hundred pounds, Caucasian, gray eyes. Looks like the perp climbed the gates by the east side of the house, came in through the window by the atrium.” Marco pointed to the other side of the house. “And—”
“Security didn’t go off?”
“Seems she didn’t have it on. We haven’t been able to speak with the victim yet, which is another reason we haven’t confirmed whether it is, in fact, Ryan.” Irritated, Jax shook his head. Why have a security system and not use it? In his line of work he saw these kinds of things all the time and it always drove him absolutely insane.
“Why not? Why haven’t you confirmed it yet?” He was anxious to get to the point: where was Megan and was she safe? Knowing he was pushing his luck by questioning Marco so disrespectfully, he waited for a response before he went apeshit on everyone for not getting answers. For not apprehending the suspect. For not doing their goddamn jobs.
“Waiting for family to arrive. She won’t leave the closet.”
“What?” Jax pushed Marco aside, not waiting to finish the debriefing. “Where?” He barked, his nerves at a level ten.
Marco pointed up the long marble staircase inside the house. “Up the stairs, last room down the hall.” Jax took two steps at a time. Still charged from the earlier mission, adrenaline coursed through his body. Two cops stood by the door of the bedroom while one female officer hunched down in the closet, apparently trying to gently coax Megan out. There was also a cop gathering prints by the window.
“Out!” Jax snarled. Everyone looked at him suspiciously but he didn’t leave any room for discussion as he herded everyone out, and closed the door behind them. Even knowing he didn’t have a claim to be there, to feel this protective over her, or this irrational concern, he still felt that she needed a familiar face. The face of someone who’d treat her with care and concern. Not someone who looked at her as just another victim or witness, or worse, a celebrity they could exploit in the media.
Cautiously, he stepped into the closet. He could see Megan’s toes peeking out from underneath some hanging dresses. Crouching down, he moved the dresses aside and then his heart shattered into so many pieces. He was left breathless.
Looking like a tiny ball in the corner, Megan rocked back and forth, her hands covering her ears, her eyes tightly shut. She was humming. Roughly sliding the group of dresses to the side, knocking a few of them off the hangers, he sat in front of her.
“Hey, Meg,” he said softly, careful not to startle her further. “Megan, sweetheart.” He wanted to kill whoever did this to her. She looked broken. “Megan?” He tried to gently pry her hands away from her ears as he spoke. Finally, she looked up at him, those big brown eyes he remembered all too clearly. At first her face was void of any recognition, as if she was looking through him instead of at him. But then—then—they widened. “Hey you, remember me?” And if his heart hadn’t shattered a moment ago, her face crumbling as recognition set in completely tore him apart.
“Don’t cry,” he soothed, keeping his voice soft and easy as he lifted her up and carried her out of the closet.
“Is that you? Am I dreaming this?” she asked, touching all the lines and contours on his face, cataloging the changes, her eyes wide and filled with both fear and amazement. He wondered if he looked the same to her. To him, she looked different, but good different. Fucking fantastic different. And this was just at a cursory glimpse. He couldn’t wait to really really look at her. But right now, he needed to focus, it wasn’t the time to get lost in those big brown eyes of hers.
“I wish you were. I wish this had all been just a bad dream.”
She tucked her face into his neck, wiping the last of her tears against his shirt. “It’s a nightmare, all of it.” Seeing her this way made him physically ache to make everything all right for her.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, carefully depositing her onto the bed. He went to stand up but she whimpered and grabbed hold of his shirt, her hands trembling and her eyes wide and panicked. “No. No. Don’t go!” She looked petrified, so he sat down with her and held her until the crying subsided. The rush of memories and emotions was almost too much. His grip around her was maybe too tight, but he needed to hold her again, tight against his chest. Maybe this would be the last time he got the opportunity and he wasn’t going to squander it. His heart raced and . . . Jesus Christ were those goddamn butterflies in his stomach? This was the only woman who could do that to him in a matter of seconds. It’s as if something inside him, inside his soul, was finally whole again. He’d been missing her for far too long, even if he tried so hard never to think about her. And goddamn it, he was thinking in fucking poetry now.
How many times had he held her in the few short days they’d stayed holed up together all those years back? She was soft and warm back then. Now, she was curvier but stronger, and shivering from fear. Would it be appropriate to take off the rubber band from the knot on top of her head and run his fingers through all that thick brown silk? He could pretend it was for her well-being, to comfort her. Women loved for their hair to be touched, their scalp massaged, right? It wouldn’t be for his own need or naughty memories—it would be all for her. Bullshit. Get it together, Jax!
