Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

35. GRAYSON

35

GRAYSON

I stepped off the elevator, relieved to find my brother Hunter sitting in my living room with his elbows on his knees, massaging his hands.

Thank God. I’d been nervous that Ivy might have busted his face with her foot trying to escape or something. How would a criminal defense lawyer explain that? Involving him like this was one of the stupidest things I’d ever done.

“She give you any problems?” I shoved my hands into my pockets.

When Hunter glared at me, he reminded me so much of Dad. Same eyes, same steely gaze our father used to give us boys when we’d break something after being told not to run through the house.

“You currently have neighbors?” Hunter asked.

“Why?”

“Answer the question.”

God, he was such a lawyer.

“Everyone has neighbors.”

“The walls—do they have any soundproofing?”

“Soundproofing?” I raised my eyebrows.

“It’s a penthouse. High-end buys fancy features. Does it have it or not?” Hunter demanded.

These weren’t the types of questions you wanted to hear when you left your brother to watch over your hostage.

I eyed the bedroom door, which was suspiciously quiet, then scanned my brother. I didn’t see any obvious injuries or scratches, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been a struggle. If there had been, what better person to help cover it up than a criminal defense attorney?

Panic flooded my veins, my heart spreading the toxin faster with an accelerated heartbeat. Had Ivy tried to escape and Hunter tried to hold her down? Had things gone too far?

Was Ivy…still breathing?

“What did you do?” I swallowed.

“Yes. Or no?”

Hunter full-on glowered at me now, waiting as I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to remember the selling features of this place.

“I think the walls are at least partially soundproofed. Why?”

Hunter looked at the ground for several seconds before shaking his head.

“You can’t keep her here,” he advised. “She banged the headboard against the walls a few times before I could stop her. Hard. Not…a normal bang, if you know what I mean.”

Normal. As in something that could be chalked up to rough sex.

Dammit, Ivy. Why couldn’t you be a good little captive?

“How long ago was that?” I pressed.

Hunter looked at his watch. “Twenty-six minutes. In theory, that rules out a 911 call, but you should get her out of here before she could do it again. If a neighbor hears it and calls the cops, it’s over.”

Great.

“You need to leave,” I said. “Now. And don’t let security cameras see your face.”

Hunter hesitated. “You won’t be able to get her out of here yourself.”

“I’ll figure it out,” I said.

“How will you get her out of here, undetected, alone?”

No idea.

“I shouldn’t have called you.” I clenched my hand into a ball. “Get out of here before this blows up your life.”

Hunter studied me for several seconds, shifting his jaw, and then, with one last sigh, he stood up.

“Don’t forget about our monthly dinner.”

“Hunter—”

“You’re coming,” he interrupted. “And you’re going to tell me everything.”

“I don’t know how long this will take to clear up.”

He raised his eyebrows and hitched a thumb toward the bedroom. “You think you might still be with her?”

Be with. What a kind phrase to describe holding a woman against her will.

“Taking this minute by minute at the moment.”

Hunter appeared to consider this, then stepped closer to me. “Figure this out. Fast. Because you’re coming to that dinner, and you and I are going to have a talk.”

When Hunter spoke like this, you’d think he was the older brother here, not two years younger than me. It was the way he carried himself, full of confidence, his voice firm and unwilling to bend to his demands.

The question was, assuming I did somehow make it to that dinner, what was I going to tell him?