WICKED INTENTIONS { Completed}

Chapter 23

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The persistent sound peeled into Nathan's consciousness like a fire-alarm. He winced as he rolled on the couch. Immediately muscles he didn't know existed in his neck, back, butt and legs protested the movement, cramping painfully and sending stings all over his body. "Shit."

Ring. Ring. Ring.

It was coming from somewhere north of his head. Eyes still closed Nathan reached for the source of his irritation even as his forearm disapproved of the action with harsh spasms. His hand stumbled on the plastic receiver. Hauling it from the holder, he pressed it to his ear.

"Yes." His voice sounded like it'd been dancing on nails.

A nauseatingly upbeat woman answered, "Good morning Mr. Hollis." She paused as if awaiting a good morning. When she didn't get one, she continued – though less enthusiastically, "There's a London..." Her voice sounded skeptical as she finished, "...Pistol? There's a London Pistol here to see Miss Dalton. I've told her you're not to be disturbed, but she insists."

He wanted nothing more than to say that they were not to be disturbed but he was already in Shakira's black-book. He did not need more problems. "Send her up."

The sting of early daylight bit into his vision as he pried his eyes open and then replaced the receiver on its holder. Shoving the silk sheet away, he stood. His body didn't thank him for the effort. In fact it wailed bitterly, each muscle contracting with agony. Nathan could've sworn that even his hair was aching.

The white leather couch might've looked pretty but its hard, boxy cushions, slippery coverings and short length were not meant for sleeping on, especially not by a six-foot man. He didn't know which was worse - the damned couch, Shakira's silent accusing looks or the fact that he hadn't been there to protect her last night. Randall had saved her from Gates, her lawyer had gotten her a secure place to sleep and what the hell had he done? Slept on the fucking couch!

Not only was his ego taking a thorough whipping, so was his conscience. If it wasn't for him Shakira wouldn't even have been at the apartment alone. If he'd listened to Danny and come clean, they could've talked, maybe even fought but she would've been safe. He'd chased her down in a cab but arrived just in time to see Randall carrying a limp Shakira to their building. Despite Nathan's ire at the PI for being a double-agent, he couldn't help the instinctual gratefulness.

If Randall hadn't been there, who knew what would've happened to Shakira. Just the thought was enough to send a healthy dose of panic lancing through Nathan's psyche.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Nathan grabbed his pants, gingerly inching his legs into each hole. The muscles in his arms stung excruciatingly as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. He looked at his shoes, considered putting them on, then remembered that that would require some bending. Hell No!

Knock. Knock. Knock. The hammering was even harder this time.

"I'm coming. I'm coming. Fuck," Nathan muttered as he walked –or rather limped- towards the door. When he opened it, it was to find Shakira petite friend standing there tapping her feet and cutting her eyes at him. "Hello London."

"Don't hello me." She shoved him aside, which was quite a fete in itself considering she was about half his size. "Where is she?"

"In the bedroom."

Giving him a last disgusted look, London stomped her way to the bedroom. Without knocking, she pushed the door open shrieking, "Booboo."

The door closed behind her. After that all Nathan heard were faint soundings punctuated by loud cusses like 'bastard', 'asshole' and 'faker' that he was sure London meant for him to hear. Well, it was obvious that Shakira was telling London about what he'd done.