Rogue Defender (Gone Rogue), page 2
“You weren’t supposed to be here.”
The look in his eyes…it was the same one Papa would get when I refused to bring him another beer. Or when he would hit Mama.
With a shudder, I pull myself from the memory. “Focus, Domina. Distractions are dangerous.”
I’d been distracted when I’d heard the doorknob rattling. All I’d wanted was a brief respite from my work. Five minutes out on the patio in the fresh air. The presidential election is only a week away, and Vice President Cortez has his final rally on Thursday. I need to finish writing his speech.
Shit. My notes. They are still scattered all over the couch.
Backing away from the intruder, I sweep my legal pad and wad of Post-its into my briefcase and fasten the buckle.
Once I tuck the leather bag next to the couch, I blow out a breath. Cortez would not be happy if he found out I let anyone see the speech ahead of time.
The man lying against the wall stirs, a weak grunt escaping his lips. The sound increases my panic by a thousand. I take aim with the pepper spray, but his eyelids only flutter for a moment.
Just as I get myself under control, the faint sounds of a football match trickle through the wall. From Leo’s apartment.
“You know where I’ll be…”
Maybe I shouldn’t have kicked him out. He did leap onto my balcony like some sort of grizzled action hero. But my attacker is still mostly unconscious, tied up, and has a face full of cactus needles. I will be fine.
I let out a huff. Why did his voice have to be so deep that I cannot get it out of my head? The first time we passed in the halls, I noticed him. The silver in his chestnut hair. The neatly trimmed beard. The studs in his ears. And his limp. A recent injury? Or an old one?
“He is not thinking about you. Stop thinking about him,” I mutter.
If only I could. He put himself in danger for me. And I thanked him by telling him to leave.
You did the right thing. You do not need a man to solve all your problems. You can handle this on your own.
But my cheek aches more and more with each breath, and I brush my fingers over the tender skin.
“Put some ice on that bruise.”
Even after I was rude to him, he still tried to help me. And he was right. I need to stop the swelling or I won’t be able to sleep tonight.
Do I dare turn my back on the man tied up on the floor long enough to get an ice pack from my freezer? I don’t have much choice. But only two steps toward the kitchen, someone knocks. “Police! Open the door!”
Thank God. The officers will take this man away, and my life will go back to normal.
Two hours later, the ice pack cradled to my cheek, I trudge out onto the balcony. The officers just left, and I am not ready to be inside—alone—just yet. It’s peaceful out here, only a light hum of traffic from the causeway competing with the nightly birdsong.
The day started so well—a calm Sunday with nothing to do but work on Manuel’s speech—and I want to forget everything that happened once the man broke down my door. If not for the bruises around my throat, my swollen cheek, and my aching shoulder, maybe I could.
“Shit!” the man growls.
My head aches where it hit the wall. Dark brown eyes bore into me. He’s angry. Why?
“Let go of me!”
His free hand fists my hair, and I yelp. Fear wraps icy chains around me, and I can’t breathe.
“Domina?”
I drop the ice pack and spin toward the voice. My memories recede into the background, the intruder banished by the shock of realizing I am not alone. With my fingers curled around one of the wrought iron whorls of the divider, I peer over at Leo, sitting in a chair only a few feet away. “¡Ayala vida! How long have you been out here?”
He pushes to his feet with a groan, then shuffles over to the wall separating us. “Since I left your apartment. You never shut your sliding glass door. I had to know if the police took care of everything.”
“You listened in?” A part of me wants to tell him how rude that was, but there’s something sweet about the gesture. Protective. Kind.
“Wait…I heard the football match. You did not watch?”
He shrugs his left shoulder and rubs his jaw. Is it swollen? In the semi-darkness, I cannot tell.
“Got a bowl of chips and can of soda on the coffee table. In case anyone came knocking. But no. I didn’t watch.”
I brace a hand on the railing, steadying myself as I retrieve the ice pack. “In case anyone came knocking?”
“I don’t know why you said you’d ‘keep my name out of this,’ but I figured if the National Police wanted to talk to me, probably best they not find me eavesdropping on a member of the vice president’s inner circle.”
I snap my jaw shut. The police would have arrested him for that. “Mierda. I am sorry, Leo. I did not think…”
“It’s okay. No one came. I couldn’t hear much, but it didn’t sound like they gave you any trouble. Did they?”
I shake my head, then regret the motion. The balcony spins around me. Grabbing the railing, I pray I don’t pass out.
“Domina!” Leo’s warm hand covers mine. “Slow, deep breaths.”
I let him hold on—or maybe I will him to—until I feel steady, then turn to meet his gaze. He’s reaching around the partition at an awkward angle, and lines of pain tighten around his lips.
“I’m okay.”
“The hell you are. You need a doctor. You lost consciousness. But I can see it in your eyes. You’re not going. No matter what I say.”
Despite his words, his voice is so gentle—and deep—that when he lets go, I feel the loss.
“Will you at least take my phone number?” he asks. “So you can text me if you feel sick in the middle of the night?”
“But if I lock my door, you will not be able to leap onto the patio and rescue me.” My smile eases a small measure of my worry, but Leo’s gaze is deadly serious.
“If you’re in trouble, a locked door won’t stop me.”
The gravel to his voice—and his intense stare—tell me he is very confident in his ability to save me again if I need it. “Who are you? Rambo?”
His rough chuckle shouldn’t be this sexy. And I definitely should not be leaning my back against the railing so I can get a better look at him. Or so he can get a better look at me.
“If you tell me you forgot my name already, I’m really going to be worried,” he says. Then, one corner of his mouth lifts into a half smile. “Or insulted.”
“Of course not! Your name is Mike. Or…Juan? No, wait. Brian.” We both laugh, and I feel lighter than I have in days, despite my pounding head. “I have to know, Leo…where did you learn to fight? Or swing onto balconies?”
His shoulders hunch, and he turns to stare out over the courtyard. In the distance, lights from the seaside promenade twinkle like diamonds in the moonlight.
“Not easy to explain.”
“Try?”
I touch the ice pack to my cheek and swallow a pained whimper. My eye is swollen half shut. My entire body aches. My neck, my shoulder, my back. All bruised so badly, I worry how terrible I will feel tomorrow. I need a hot bath, another handful of aspirin, and a full night’s sleep. If only I could stop replaying the attack over and over again in my mind.
Leo pushes off the railing with a heavy sigh. “Domina, given where you work, anything I tell you puts me at risk.”
“United States government, then.” Shock plays over the left side of his face. The right doesn’t move the same way, and I study his lopsided frown. “NSA? CIA?”
“Shit. No.” Bracing his hand on the wrought iron between us, he meets my gaze through the intricate design. “I’m retired. Can we leave it at that?”
There’s something in his tone, but I’m too tired and sore to figure out what it is. “You came to my rescue tonight, Leo. Even if Manuel—the Vice President—or the National Police asked me about you, I would keep your secret.”
Resting my own palm against the divider, I thrill at the little zing as our fingers touch. The contact is…almost intimate. I should not be attracted to him. Relationships are dangerous. Just like distractions.
He nods. “Thanks.” A spasm jerks his arm, and he takes a step back. “Been a long day.” Swiping his phone from the table, he says, “Give me your number.”
I rattle off the eight digits, and a moment later, my mobile vibrates in my pocket.
“And now you have mine. Don’t be afraid to use it.”
What am I supposed to say to him? Thank you? Have a good night? See you later? Or…nothing at all as he’s already limping back into his apartment. When he shuts the door, I feel more alone than ever.
My phone’s clock taunts me. I climbed into bed—after that handful of aspirin—but within ten minutes, I thought I heard someone rattling the doorknob, and I panicked.
Sitting in the living room is worse. Too many memories. I clean up the dirt and the remnants of the cactus pot, but a smear of my attacker’s blood stains the tile, and I have no bleach.
A bath will help. But while the hot water soothes my aching muscles, my thoughts race. Even with the door locked, I jump at every sound.
By the time I slip back into bed, midnight approaches like an unwelcome guest, and I am no closer to sleep.
Picking up the phone, I intend to find a silly game to occupy my time until exhaustion claims me, but then I see the message.
Leo: Heard the vacuum. I’m an expert in sleepless nights. If you need anything, text me.
My cheek throbs, and I rub my swollen eye. “That was a mistake,” I mutter to the darkened room, lit only by the glow from the screen. I should apologize for waking him. Or turn off my phone completely.
But instead of pressing the power button, I read Leo’s message again. And again.
Domina: He broke the door chain.
My fingers tremble, and I hit Send by accident. The message disappears with a quiet whoosh. Shit. I sound like a helpless damsel in distress.
Do not stare at the phone. Turn it off. You vacuumed almost an hour ago. He must be asleep by now.
Yet somehow, I know he’s not. Or if he is, he kept his mobile on. In under a minute, the device vibrates in my hand.
Leo: Wedge a chair under the knob. If you have anything that makes noise—bells or wind chimes—hang them from the chair. If they wake you, call me immediately.
Domina: Bells? Why would I have bells?
Leo: Because you love Christmas? Don’t tell me you hate Christmas.
I laugh, then sink back against the pillows. He may be gruff, but then he says things like this, and I wonder if I have been wrong all these years. Keeping everyone at arm’s length, only allowing a few people in my life to see the real me.
Perhaps getting to know Leo—as a friend—would not be so terrible.
Domina: I do not hate Christmas. I have a whole box of ornaments in my closet.
Leo: The last time I celebrated Christmas was ten years ago. You decorate? Get a tree?
Domina: An artificial tree, yes. But in Panama, we also paint our homes in early December. I will go to the store for the paint in a few weeks.
Leo: What color?
I had not given any thought to the color. Or to how this will be one more Christmas I spend with my friend Mina and her family. Watching them celebrate. Nursing a single glass of sparkling water all evening while her mom, aunt, and grandmother serve the tamales, fruitcake, and arroz con pollo. Being welcomed like I belong, though I know I do not.
Domina: Nothing special. White or beige. The landlord would not like it if I painted my walls orange.
Leo: Orange? Really?
With a huff, I shuffle out to the main room so I can wedge a chair under the front doorknob. Once I finish, I scroll through the photos on my phone until I find the right one. A picture I took of my apartment in San Miguelito more than ten years ago. The bedroom walls were a stunning shade of apricot, and they made me so happy every time I came home.
Domina: Do not mock my orange walls, Mr. Sleepless Nights. I loved them.
Leo: They’re beautiful, and I’m sorry. How are you feeling?
He asked me that earlier, and I snapped at him. Told him I was fine when I knew I was not. What if the man who attacked me was searching for more than just an empty apartment to rob? What if he has friends?
Leo: Domina? Talk to me.
After another minute—maybe two—the phone rings.
Incoming video call.
My brain short-circuits. Growly, overly protective men do not call me in the middle of the night to find out if I’m okay.
The words flash across the screen three more times before I get the courage to answer.
“What are you—?” My words fall away when I get my first good look at him. Leo slumps against his headboard with a dark blue sheet pulled up to his chest. His right shoulder is mostly hidden, but the left? He holds the phone in such a way I can see the corded muscles all the way down to his elbow.
“Domina? I need an answer.”
Shit. I did not even think about what I was wearing. A brief glance confirms my tank top covers everything it should, and I clear my throat. “You do not need to worry about me.”
“The hell I don’t. Your eye is swollen shut. Is it bleeding at all? Does it hurt? Any trouble breathing through your nose?”
The rapid-fire questions should annoy me—being handled is not something I allow. But at the moment, I am still too shocked I answered the call and let a man I have only just met see me in my bed at 1:00 a.m.
“I am not bleeding, and I can breathe. My cheek hurts, but I would be surprised if it did not.” Settling back against the pillows, I focus on Leo’s concerned expression. “I thought you were…retired. Not a doctor.”
He blows out a breath and shifts his hold on the phone. Now, I can only see his face, and up close, his eyes are two subtly different colors. “We get basic medical training. How to check for a concussion, broken bones, signs of serious internal injuries. I should have insisted you call the paramedics.”
I roll my eyes, though I probably look foolish since only one is open. “I am a grown woman, Leo. I do not need a man insisting I do anything.”
“I noticed,” he says, his voice even deeper than usual. Goosebumps race down my arms, and some of my irritation dissolves into longing. No one has thought to be protective of me for many years. I may not need his concern, but a small part of me cherishes it.
“I should go. Good night, Leo.” I lower the phone to end the call but stop when he swears softly.
“Domina, I’m sorry if I overstepped. I’m not good with…people.” He runs a hand through his hair and sinks lower in his bed. One corner of his mouth curves into a smile. “This isn’t usually how I end up in a woman’s bedroom.”
I laugh, despite the storm of emotions churning in my belly. “No? What do you ‘usually’ do? Find a date on LovePanama? Tinder?” I prop the phone against my bedside lamp and turn onto my side.
“Guys like me don’t…” He shakes his head as his cheeks flush. “No one’s going to swipe right on my profile.”
“Why not?” Exhaustion barrels toward me, threatening to pull me under, but I have to know why this man who is so obviously handsome—and funny—thinks no one would want to date him. A single moment stretches between us, then snaps as all emotion drains from his eyes.
“Get some sleep, Domina. You put the chair under the doorknob?”
Drawing the blankets tighter around me, I nod. “I did. Good night, Leo—” He ends the call, and as I stare at the darkened screen, I suddenly feel utterly and completely alone.
CHAPTER THREE
Leo
The backhanded slap sends sharp, stabbing pain through my ruined eye socket. “Wake up, cabrón.”
“Like you shitheads would let me fall asleep,” I manage. How long has it been? Four days? Five? Hell, for all I know, I’ve been here less than thirty-six hours, but it feels like a month. Bright lights, music—if you can call it that—blaring at ear-splitting volume, and the various stress positions haven’t given me a moment’s rest since they found me at Bar Rosario and shot me up with God-knows-what.
The metal chair I’m bound to jumps on the concrete floor as Asshole #1 kicks me in the chest.
With my right eye mostly gone and my left swollen half shut, I didn’t see it coming. My diaphragm seizes. I strain against the wire binding my wrists to the arms of the chair.
Blood and fluid trickle down my cheek. Tears? Whatever the shit is—or was—inside my eye? Who the hell knows.
“Names! All those you work with in Venezuela, Colombia, and Ecuador! Now!” A punch snaps my head back. The shock lets me draw in a wheezing breath.
“Fuck. You.”
The sound of the switchblade makes me flinch. The last time Asshole #1 waved it in front of my face, he sliced through my eyeball. The sharp edge presses to my cheek. I grit my teeth—damn painful with what I think is a fractured jaw—and prepare for the worst.
Until Asshole #2 grabs Asshole #1’s arm. “If he loses much more blood, he will be no good to us. Put the knife away. I have a better idea.”
I jerk awake, the memory of a lead pipe shattering my temporal bone as fresh now as it was nine years ago.
Cursing as my right lid sticks to my prosthetic eye, I reach for the lubricating drops I keep next to the bed. After I smooth a bit over the acrylic, I can blink again.
The late night didn’t do me any favors. Neither did the asshole who broke into Domina’s apartment. My jaw aches, and when I push myself up to sitting, my right leg is nothing but pins and needles.
Great.
I ease myself onto the floor and reach for my therapy balls and trigger point rollers. It takes me half an hour of painful exercises and targeted pressure all along my back, my ass, and my legs for most of the sensation to return.
By the time I shuffle into the kitchen to start coffee, it’s after nine, and I wanted to get to the El Chorrillo neighborhood well before noon in case the piece-of-shit I was hired to track down shows up at his mistress’s apartment to take her to lunch.
