Page 64 of Draven

Chapter 23

Louise

“Draven, for fuck’s sake, pick up your phone. It’s urgent.”

I pace, wearing a hole in the threadbare rug in the middle of my living room. An hour has passed since Darla dropped her bombshell, and I still can’t quite believe it. I’ve never particularly taken to Captain Joel Beresford, but this…

This is something else entirely.

What if Darla’s wrong? After how terribly she’s suffered, it’d be easy to make a mistake. I’ll have to tread as if I’m walking on eggshells. To go around accusing my captain of such a heinous crime on the testimony of a woman who endured a terrible trauma is tantamount to career suicide. Not to mention slanderous if proven false.

I dial Draven’s number again, a scream of frustration erupting from me when it goes to voicemail once more. Where the hell is he?

I fire out a text in case he’s undercover and can’t talk. Ten minutes later, he calls.

“At last!” I cry.

“What’s so urgent, Lola? Missing me already?”

“Something’s happened. Oh, God, Draven, I barely know where to begin.” Sweat slicks my palms, and my breathing is so erratic, I wonder if I’m having a heart attack. “It’s a fucking nightmare.”

“Calm down, Lola. Breathe.”

“It’s him.” I fall over my words, struggling to speak past the enormous lump lodged in my throat. Fear. That lump is mind-numbing fear. “Oh, God, I don’t know what to do.”

“Lola!” Draven snaps. “Take a breath. Then another, then another. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slowly.” He curses, then mutters something that sounds vaguely like “Fuck off.”

“Did you just tell me to fuck off?”

A hint of a chuckle hits my ears. “No. I told someone else to fuck off. Okay, are you calmer now?”

“A bit.”

“Right, start at the beginning.”

I quickly recount my meet up with Darla, and when I’ve finished, I fire the killer blow. “The American, Draven. She thinks it’s my captain.”

I can imagine his spine rocketing straight at that piece of news, his eyes narrowing, and his hand gripping the phone just that little bit tighter. “What?”

“I know. Fuck, I know. Oh, God, what do I do? This is huge. If she’s right, I’m in way over my head.”

“Where are you?”

My knees give way, and I stumble over to the couch to sink onto it. “At home.”

“Sit tight. I’m two hours away. Don’t call anyone. Don’t answer the door. Don’t fucking move. I’m coming.”

He hangs up, leaving me to chew on my fingernails until they bleed. Every sound that comes from outside has me dashing to the window to see if it’s him, forcing me to quash my disappointment when it’s not. Under normal circumstances, D.C. is almost three hours’ drive away, but Draven should be able to make it in less time. He can skip past any lines of traffic on his bike.

Sure enough, a little over two hours later, the familiar rumble of his engine reaches me. I pull back the drapes in time to see him dismount, and he glances up at my window, his expression more serious than I’ve ever seen him. For a man who rarely cracks a smile, that’s saying something. He told me not to open the door, but he’s coming now, so I do. My ears strain for the ping from the elevator. The second I see his big body striding toward me, I run to him, flinging myself into his waiting arms.

“This is bad, Draven. It’s really, really bad.”

He strokes my back with the flat of his palm in ever decreasing circles, the touch meant to comfort and reassure, which it does to some extent. But still, the tingle in my fingers and toes, and the nausea in my gut won’t quit.

He urges me back inside my apartment and closes the door. “How certain was she?” he asks, referring to Darla’s worrying identification.

“Given the look on her face when she saw him, I’d say it’s a shoo in. She was emphatic, and absolutely scared out of her wits.”

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