Jill Shalvis - The Street Where She Lives

Because there was no Alicia. Ben knew that with a sudden, painful clarity. Alicia was Asada, who wasn’t dead at all. Ben should have never believed that without a body. And he’d just hand-delivered his daughter to the man. Using his shoulder, he plowed into the door. The wood jamb started to splinter, and he did it again.

“Hey!” The bartender got a look at what they were doing and started to round the bar. “Get back from there-” he shouted just as the door gave, propelling Ben inside the bathroom.

Emily was on the floor, bound and gagged, with a two-ton goon kneeling at her side shoving a needle into her arm. A second goon had removed the window and was reaching down for Emily’s lifeless body.

Ben lunged for him, and they both went down like a load of concrete to the tile floor. He got one punch in before he was rolled to his back and socked in the head. Stars danced across his vision, cutting off for a new pain when he took another in the gut. Using his knee as effectively as he could from flat on the floor, Ben leveled it into the guy’s crotch, then nearly suffocated when all two hundred pounds of solid muscle landed on him, knocking the air from his lungs. Trying to shove free of the dead weight, he died a thousand deaths at the sound of Rachel’s sudden scream.

The other goon had dropped Emily and turned toward Rachel, knife out, an unholy gleam in his eye.

Rachel lifted something and sprayed. Mace, Ben thought with a surge of pride as the man screamed and dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Rachel looked up at Ben, her eyes dilated. “Ben!”

He whipped around just in time to watch goon number one, still holding his family jewels with one hand, pull a gun from his pocket with the other. “I’m going to shoot yours right off,” he growled, and believing him, Ben took a flying leap at him.

Not quite quick enough though, because a shot rang out. And as things switched to an old silent film, Ben had time to lash himself with guilt.

His fault they were here, he thought as he crashed to the floor, a burning ripping through his upper thigh as the bone shattered under the speeding bullet. His fault Emily had come to any harm.

At least he landed on top of the guy, because the way the goon’s head bounced off that concrete, making the sound of a pumpkin squishing, couldn’t be good. And while getting shot had sent searing agony roaring through every part of Ben, he had to admit to being glad it was his leg and not the promised family jewels.

The other guy was sitting on the floor, screaming about his eyes.

Rachel weaved, then sat down hard, but unharmed.

Emily lay on the ground, facing away from Ben, far too still. He crawled toward her, dragging his bad leg. It took too long, and for a moment he couldn’t remember why the unbelievable agony was accompanying his every breath, until Rachel appeared at his side, touching his thigh, which made more fiery waves of agony go through him. Scooping Emily against his chest, he sank back against the wall and closed his eyes. Sirens sounded in the distance.

Sirens were good. He had Rachel on the floor beside him, teeth chattering, eyes glassy as she clearly went into shock, and Emily in his arms, unconscious and possibly overdosed from God knows what. Oh, and he needed to throw up.

God, he’d screwed up good this time. He might have even said so to Rachel, but damn, he hurt. Beyond the screaming agony in his leg, he could hear her crying, feel her tears soaking through his T-shirt.

Oh, yeah, he’d definitely screwed up. “Rachel,” he said with regret, or tried to, but his vision faded to black.

ASADA GOT THE NEWS on his ham radio. He stared out into the dark night. That’s all he had left now, darkness. No less than he deserved for failing. He was truly all alone, as the last of his two loyal minions had been hauled off to a Southern California jail cell for attempted kidnapping.

Odd, how it felt, to fail. He’d never experienced it before Ben Asher. Desolation, certainly. Sadness. It shouldn’t have come to this, but it had, and now there was only one thing left to do.

With a calm he hadn’t felt in a good, long time, he pulled out his last five-gallon drum of gasoline. Weakened by his exile and circumstance, he had some trouble dragging the thing around the perimeter of the dark, dank cellar he’d been living in, but as the gasoline splashed on the ground, the container became lighter and lighter.

So did his heart.

When he’d completed his large circle, he tossed the container aside and pulled out a lighter. Stepping inside the circle, he bent and lit the gasoline.

And stood tall as he prepared to die.

THREE IN THE MORNING in a hospital, any hospital, was the most unpleasant place in the entire world. For Rachel, who’d spent far too many late nights in a hospital recently, the sensations were the worst. The smell of antiseptic and pain. The sight of white, white and more white. The sounds of hushed murmurs and cries.

The taste of fear and hopelessness.

Thank God the last didn’t apply to her tonight. She sat in a chair by Emily’s bed, holding her daughter’s lax hand. Emily was going to be fine, the tranquilizer that had been shot into her unwilling body had worn off by now. She slept easily and of her own will. Except for her various bumps and bruises from where she’d fought her captors-Rachel’s heart hitched at the thought of what her baby had gone through before they’d broken into the bathroom-she would be fine. She was even being released in the morning.

Ben, however, hadn’t gotten so lucky. He’d come out of surgery with a steel plate in his thigh to hold the shattered bone together, and had required a transfusion of blood to keep him alive.

He would not be released in the morning. Or any time soon.

She lifted her gaze off Emily’s still, pale face and looked at the chair on the other side of the bed, a wheelchair.

The nurses had told him no. The doctors had told him no. Ben had simply gritted his teeth, gotten out of bed and demanded crutches. Worried about his well-being, they’d given in, but after he’d nearly killed himself, they’d taken away the crutches and replaced them with the wheelchair.

The man was a stubborn, idiotic fool.

He was also the most amazing, passionate, heroic, quick-thinking fool she’d ever met. He wore a hospital gown and an IV and nothing else. Slouched in the chair, head twisted at what had to be an uncomfortable angle, his good long leg stretched out next to his wrapped one, he looked…what was it he’d said to her his first day? He looked alive. Even with the tousled hair, the five o’clock shadow along his jaw, the dark circles of pain and exhaustion beneath his eyes…eyes that suddenly were opened and on Emily.

“She’s okay,” she whispered.

“Yeah.” Fierce and protective, he relaxed only when he saw she still slept. “No thanks to me.”

“Ben-”

A slight shake of his head stopped her. His jaw was tight with the pain, but she knew better than to move to his side and offer sympathy. An hour ago she’d tried, and an hour before that as well. Both times he’d refused her touch.

In his head, had he already gone? No, she knew him better than that. In his head he’d put all the blame for what had happened firmly on his own shoulders.

She watched as his eyes grew heavy on his daughter, as slowly the exhaustion and lingering anesthesia from surgery claimed him again. The depth of grief and guilt he felt stunned her. The depth of emotion she felt in return stunned as well. My God, she’d really fallen for him again. Or maybe the word was still.

There was no lingering doubt now. After all these years, she still loved him.

Having to go to him, she rounded the bed, kneeled at his side, all the love she’d just realized she had for him swamping her, needing to spill out.

As if he could read her mind, he lifted his hand and put a finger over her mouth. A grimace crossed his face. “Don’t. Don’t say it.”

She gripped his fingers in hers. “Why not?”

His face twisted in a mask of torment. “Did you somehow miss the part where I nearly got Emily killed today?”

Tears filled her eyes for what seemed the thousandth time that night. “No. That wasn’t you, that was Asada. Ben…don’t take this on yourself.”

“I have to.” He stared at her, his own eyes suspiciously wet. “It was my fault, Rach…all of it. Every single moment of your pain from the moment you were hit by that car, to when I had to darken your doorstep again, to now…” He looked at the very still Emily. “Watching our daughter lie in that hospital bed.”

She cupped his face and waited until his eyes shifted off Emily to hers. His pupils were dilated, his skin hot and dry to the touch. The words she wanted, needed, to tell him backed up in her throat at the heat of him. “My God. You’re burning up.” Surging up, she went behind his wheelchair.

“What are you doing?”

“What I should have done a long time ago,” she said, mirroring his long-ago words to her. “I’m taking you to bed.”

FOUR PINS, a steel plate and one more surgery later, Ben was released from the hospital. He blinked into the bright sunlight, nearly tripping over the crutches he’d been so determined not to need but would for a long time.

At least he was alive, more than he could say for his nemesis, who’d actually chosen death by his own hand. And this time Asada’s body had been positively identified by a United States FBI agent.

There’d be no more reign of terror.

After all this time of being on edge, Ben still couldn’t believe it was truly over. His mind was having a hard time wrapping itself around that fact.

“Here.” Rachel opened the passenger door of her car and smiled at him. “Bending to get in is the hard part, I’ll just hold on to you-”