The Tracker Page 7

  Luke scoffed. “If Tommy showed you the way, then Tracker told him to.”

  What did that mean? Had Tracker known I was coming? Was that why his door had been ajar when I’d first shown up?

  I cleared my throat. “So, Tommy’s your friend?”

  Ryan nodded. “And our student. He’s a good kid. But you can’t tell anyone else about this place.” His gaze hardened as he stared at me. “You really don’t want to know what we do to traitors.” He and Luke exchanged another glance.

  Was that a warning? Talk and I die?

  I swallowed hard. “I promise not to tell anyone about this place.”

  “Bah!” Ryan snickered. “We would never hurt you. You’re too cute. But hey, seriously, you can stay with me if you want. I’ve got a nice big bed.” He leered at me, waggling his brows and making me laugh. The tension eased out of me. I liked Ryan. He was funny. Not so serious like Tracker. Though he flirted shamelessly, I didn’t think he would do anything to hurt me. Or maybe I was just too naïve and trusting.

  Ryan studied me a moment. Beneath the silliness and the flirting was a sharp wit. “What did you do to Tracker, anyway? I’ve never seen him act like that before.”

  I let out a huff. “I didn’t do anything to him. I spent half the night cleaning his apartment, cooking his dinner and washing and folding his laundry.”

  “Hmm,” Luke broke in. “He called you his slave. Why? I’ve never known him to mistreat a woman before. Hell, I’ve never even seen him bring a woman home before. You’re the first.”

  I cleared my throat. I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Tracker hadn’t brought me home. I’d come here searching for him. But it sounded like I was the first he was letting stay. Well, until he’d booted me out, anyway.

  “He didn’t mistreat me. Not exactly. I didn’t have any money to pay him for helping me find my sister, so we made a deal that I would do whatever he wanted as payment for his services.”

  “That sneaky bastard.” Ryan tittered. “So, when he wanted sex and you didn’t, he called the deal off?”

  I hesitated. That wasn’t what had happened, was it? He’d said to come here and that he had another task for me, but he’d never groped me or touched me inappropriately. He’d never demanded sex. True, he’d tackled me onto the bed. I wasn’t sure why. But he hadn’t hurt me. He hadn’t even tried to kiss me or undress me or anything of the sort. Had all my terror been for nothing? He’d said he wanted me to come to him willingly, that he would never force me. Had he just been testing me?

  Oh my God. Had I overreacted?

  I groaned. I put my face in my hands. Maybe I should have just done what he asked and found out what he’d wanted. Instead, I’d panicked, freaked out.

  Because he scares me and I’m so damn attracted to him I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to become my mother.

  “I think I made a mistake,” I whispered. “I think I overreacted.”

  Ryan snorted. “Not likely. Tracker can be intimidating. If you fled in terror, it’s totally understandable.” He said it so straight-faced that it took me a moment to realize he was teasing. His eyes twinkled with laughter. “None of the other dregs are as suave as me.” He winked.

  A soft laugh burst out of me. As handsome and charming as Ryan was, he didn’t make my heart race like Tracker. Thank God. There was no way in hell I was going to let myself be “extracted” by Ryan.

  What was it about Tracker that made me care? I let out a frustrated sigh. I’d only known the man for less than a day, but something about him drew me to him. I was intrigued by him. I thought back to when he’d had me pinned on the bed. I’d been more turned on than scared, I admitted now, but I had tried to hide it by lashing out at him. If he’d tried to kiss me, I don’t think I would have resisted.

  Why didn’t he kiss me?

  Was he even attracted to me?

  Why am I even wondering that?

  Oh God. I’m so messed up. What was he doing to me?

  I stepped away from Ryan and Luke. “Thanks guys. You helped me realize I have to go apologize. I think I made a mistake.” I think I may have misjudged Tracker.

  “Whoa, what a minute.” Ryan stepped in front of me. “You’re going to apologize to him? No, doll. Don’t do it. He was out of line if you ask me.”

  Had Tracker been out of line? Or had I jumped to conclusions, assumed in my fear that Tracker wanted something he didn’t?

  What was I supposed to think when he says to “come here” and “I have another task for you”?

  Maybe he’d just wanted to tell me something.

  Arg! The man had me so confused!

  I pushed past Ryan and headed for the door. Despite Tracker’s warnings, I think Ryan and Luke just liked to have fun. They were jokesters. Flirts. Very charming and attractive guys. But I wasn’t interested in either of them that way.

  Because all I could think about was a wounded soldier with silvery-gray eyes and black hair who expressed himself with beautiful drawings.

  Tracker.

  My heart gave a little jolt. He fascinated me. Who was he underneath his tough, rough exterior? I had to find out.

  I was going back there now. To apologize. Would he kick me out a second time?

  You can do this, Jess.

  “I’ll see you guys later.” I opened the door and went out before Ryan or Luke could stop me. I felt down the wall, two doors down, until I reached Tracker’s apartment.

  Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door and waited.

  Would he answer? Would he tell me to get lost?

  Nerves fluttered in my stomach. If he sent me away a second time, I’d have to find someone else to help me. But there was no one else. Just Tracker.

  The door jerked open. Tracker stared down at me, his gray eyes dark and hooded.

  I cleared my throat. “I came to apologize. I want to go through with our deal.”

  He just stood there and stared at me.

  “Please,” I whispered. “You’re the only one who can help me. I promise I won’t fight with you anymore. I’ll do whatever you want, whenever you want.” Heat flooded up my neck and into my face.

  His throat moved as he swallowed hard. He let out a deep sigh. “I don’t force women.”

  I couldn’t resist raising a brow. “Then why did you tackle me and hold me down?”

  He shrugged. “You fought me. But I wasn’t going to force you.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

  I don’t force women.

  I let out a snort. “The other women don’t fight you?”

  Something indescribable flickered in his eyes. “No.”

  Of course, they didn’t. They probably fought to be with him, rather than away from him like I had.

  Silence stretched. I stared up into his face while he stared at something behind me.

  His gaze came back to mine. “Admit I didn’t hurt you, and I’ll let you in.” His deep, sexy voice broke the silence, drawing me in, captivating me. Damn, this man did strange things to me. My pulse raced. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

  I stared at those bulging muscles and swallowed hard. “You didn’t hurt me.” It was true. He hadn’t.

  “For the record,” he continued. “I would never lay a hand on you unless you wanted me to.” He opened the door wider and waved me inside. “I shouldn’t have tackled you onto the bed. It won’t happen again.”

  Was that an apology? I hesitated, then stepped over the threshold.

  “I’m getting some rest.” He strode past me toward his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind him.

  I stared at the closed door for a good two or three minutes, half expecting him to come back out and drag me in there after him.

  I don’t force women.

  Strangely, I believed him.

  I want you to come to me willingly.

  Had he meant that? Did he really expect me to go to him and beg him to take me to his bed?

  Not gonna ha
ppen. Though I couldn’t deny my growing attraction to him, there was no way in hell I’d beg him to make love to me. Not even.

  With a huff, I settled down on the hard cot and tried to get comfortable.

  But all I could think about was the sexy ex-soldier in the other room.

  And what he might look shirtless.

  Or naked.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jessica

  A half hour later, I picked up a thriller novel from Tracker’s bookshelf and settled into his comfortable armchair. It was time to stop thinking about the man and how he affected me.

  Forcing myself to concentrate, I began to read. A couple of hours passed as I became engrossed in the book. Lost in a fictional world of espionage, war, and government corruption.

  A sound from Tracker’s bedroom jerked me out of the book and back to reality.

  I sat up straighter in the chair. What was that?

  Another sound. Louder. A moan?

  I turned toward Tracker’s bedroom door and listened.

  A harsh sound. A gasp of pain?

  A muttered curse.

  More moaning. Gasps.

  What the heck?

  I stared at the closed door.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, his voice muffled behind the door.

  I leapt up from the chair, setting the book on the end table.

  I’m loco.

  Had he been serious when he said that? Or had he just been trying to scare me?

  He moaned again, more loudly.

  Was he having a nightmare?

  I slowly moved the few feet to the door, pausing outside of his bedroom.

  I waited, listening intently.

  A muffled sound, soft and pitying. A whimper? Was he crying?

  I hesitated again, unsure what to do.

  Then he screamed, “Fuck you! Fuck you all! Fuck you!”

  I flinched. Definitely a nightmare.

  Or a man insane.

  I paused again at that thought, my hand on the doorknob. Tracker was a former soldier. A wounded warrior. I could only imagine what sorts of horrible things he’d done. Or had been done to him. What if he was suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress? I’d heard about soldiers returning from war with their minds all messed up.

  Could I help him somehow? Surprisingly, I wanted to.

  I turned the knob, which I discovered wasn’t locked. He must have assumed I wasn’t a threat and that I would never willingly enter his bedroom. Normally, that would be true. But I couldn’t ignore his pain.

  I gently pushed the door open.

  The light from the living room spilled into the bedroom, making it easy for me to see Tracker thrashing about on the bed, moaning softly. His chest was bare, his legs tangled in the sheets. A large, muscular man, he was a beautifully sculpted example of male perfection. And he was definitely having a nightmare. I cautiously approached the bed and paused.

  “Tracker,” I whispered. “Wake up.”

  No response. He kept thrashing and moaning. What could I do to help?

  Suddenly he went still, his breathing shallow. Was the nightmare over?

  I leaned closer and pressed a hand against his bare shoulder. Gently shaking him, I raised my voice. “Tracker! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”

  He moved so fast I didn’t even have time to blink before he yanked me off the floor and tossed me on the bed. His big body smothered mine as his hand closed over my throat and squeezed, his eyes wild as they bored into mine.

  “Who are you?” he hissed. “Who sent you?”

  I gasped, choked. Clawing at his hand with my fingers, I tried to dislodge it from my throat. “It-it’s me, Jess, your…s-slave.” I swallowed, sucked in a breath, pulled harder at his hand. “P-please. You’re h-hurting…me.”

  His eyes slowly cleared. He blinked, then snatched his hand back as if I’d burned him. Turning away from me, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He let out a low growl and put his face in his hands.

  Silence stretched. I slowly sat up, eyeing him warily. Black ink danced along his shoulder blades and upper back, a serpent of chains with intertwining locks and a skull in the center. Oh my God. It was the same as the drawing in his sketchpad. The tattoo was quite detailed, the artistry striking, almost eloquent, as beautiful as the strokes of his pencil. What did it represent? Slavery? Being held a prisoner? What had happened to him? Was that why he’d made me his slave, because he’d once been one? My curiosity about the man grew.

  “What are you doing in my room?” he asked without looking at me, his voice rough, gravelly.

  I swallowed hard. My throat was tender from his hand squeezing it a moment before. But I was more concerned about his mental state. “You…were having a nightmare. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  He snorted. “That’s why you have a cot out there, away from me, so I can’t hurt you. I could have killed you, woman.” He sighed loudly and pointed at the door. “Get out. And don’t ever come back in here if I’m sleeping. Do not, under any circumstances, cross that threshold if I’m not awake and coherent, got it?”

  I hesitated, wanting to help him somehow. “What happened to you?” I whispered.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. “I said, out!” In a swift move, he scooped me up from the bed. He hissed in pain and nearly dropped me. Straightening, he tossed me over his shoulder and hauled me out the room.

  Tracker deposited me on my cot in the living room and marched away before I could even react.

  I stared after him. “I just wanted to help you.”

  He halted at my words. Then slowly, he turned to face me. I stared at his perfect, masculine physique, thick with muscle, clad in only a pair of boxers. His impressive body represented strength. Power. Control. He was so tough on the outside. How damaged was he on the inside?

  “Don’t you get it? I can’t be helped. That’s why they tossed me aside like a bag of trash. I’m fucked up.” He smacked his forehead with his palm. “In here.”

  Our gazes locked. Something flickered in his eyes, giving me a glimpse of…what? Humanity? Vulnerability? My heart went out to this harsh man who seemed so cold and unfeeling, yet underneath, so badly damaged he believed he couldn’t be helped. Was there anything at all that I could do to help him?

  “Eliza and I went to counseling after our mother committed suicide,” I admitted quietly. “She…wasn’t the best mother. I resented her for a lot of years. Sometimes I still resent her.” I paused, my cheeks heating. “It helps to talk about it.” No one else knew about that. No one knew that our mother had been messed up in the head and that she had taken her own life and left us all alone in the world. Losing my father had been too much for her. Or maybe the constant stream of men coming and going from her bedroom had finally taken its toll.

  I wasn’t sure why I was telling Tracker this. Maybe it would help him to open up and share something in return, let him know he wasn’t alone.

  His face contorted into something that looked like extreme pain. Then he uttered a sound that was part groan, part snarl. He laughed. A false laugh, full of bitterness. “My employer sent me to a shrink. She said I was unfit for duty, that I was suffering from severe PTSD, and that she recommended I be discharged from my duties because I was too unstable. And that was that.”

  My mouth dropped open in disbelief. “She didn’t offer you any more sessions to help you?”

  He scoffed. “Why would they want to spend any more money on me? I was loco in their eyes. Fucked up because of what they’d done to me and what they’d made me do. They don’t care about us. They never did. We were expendable from the start. An experiment. They tortured us, messed with our minds, experimented with us like lab rats, beat us down until we craved death, then slowly built us back up and gave us a purpose in life. To kill.” He broke off abruptly, as if he hadn’t meant to say so much.

  I swallowed hard, my gaze still locked on his. They’d tortured him? Experimented with him? Th
at was terrible! He was a human being! His purpose had been to kill? My God, what had they done to him? I didn’t want to think about any of that. I didn’t want to imagine him as a young boy being tortured. I didn’t want to believe the rumors that the dregs were all retired mercenaries. Killers. Whatever had happened to him, whatever he’d done, it had made him the man he was today. I could see that he was tortured deep inside, not broken, exactly, but definitely hurting. I’d seen his drawings.

  “I want to help you, Tracker. Tell me what I can do.”

  He closed his eyes and turned away from me. “I don’t sleep much.” The way he said it sounded like a confession. He sighed. “Sleeping brings the nightmares. And when the nightmares are bad like this, I need a distraction of some kind, something to get my mind off of the past. Sometimes I draw, if I can get in the right mind set.”

  I nodded. “And other times?”

  He stared at the wall as he spoke. “Sometimes I need something…physical.”

  Okay. I could understand that. “Like sparring with another dreg? Hitting a punching bag?”

  He jerked his gaze back to mine. “You could say that. We do spar a lot to help release our aggression and the anger that sometimes just builds and builds and won’t go away. But it doesn’t always work. Sometimes I need something stronger, something…violent.”

  I swallowed hard. “Like what?”

  His gaze hardened. “Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

  The blood drained from my face. Did he mean kill someone? He couldn’t, could he?

  You don’t know him, Jess. He’s a dreg. A former soldier. He just admitted he’d been trained to kill.

  “No,” I whispered. “I don’t believe it. You wouldn’t kill someone just to get rid of your pain and aggression.”

  He cocked a brow. “And how would you know that?” There was a hard gleam in his eye that said yes he would.

  My heart pounded. This man was suffering far more than I would probably ever understand. Yet I sensed he was intentionally trying to frighten me. Why? Did my questions make him uncomfortable? That just made me more curious about him.

  Selfishly, I wanted to be the one to fix him. I wanted to believe there was good in him, that he could be rehabilitated. That his soul could be…saved.