The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel
Page 4
And maybe he was. Maybe he'd been so jaded and burnt by his experiences that everything was a conspiracy to him.
The day of Mac's testimony had marked the beginning of the end of his career with the military. He had known there was a possibility of that happening going in but he didn't care, had convinced himself he was simply being paranoid. Had convinced himself that justice would win, that the justice meted out for the men who died that night—and the men before and after them—would make it all worth it. Only there had been no justice for the men who had lost their lives—and no repercussions for the Senator he had come to hate.
Ugly history?
No, it was more than just ugly history. A lot more. That didn't mean the past was clouding his judgment now.
He opened his mouth, ready to argue with Reigs, but Daryl interrupted him.
"That's not what Jon means and you know it. We know there was proof but it got buried. The point is, nothing sticks to the man, no matter how much proof you have." He stepped away from the fireplace, closed the distance between them until he was a foot away from Mac. His deep-set eyes burned beneath lowered brows. "And if you go off half-cocked on this, he's going to bury you. He's going to make it look like it's nothing more than you trying to get back at him for what happened three years ago. And if that happens, you can kiss any chance at justice goodbye. Is that what you want?"
Mac wanted to argue—the words boiled deep inside him, mixing with the rage and fury over the possibility that, once again, the Senator would get away with it. He buried the words, buried the arguments, because Daryl was right. Without solid proof, irrefutable proof, nothing would happen. And right now, the only proof Mac had was his gut.
He ran a hand over his face, heard the bristle of day-old whiskers scratching against his callused palm. It went against everything he stood for, everything he believed in, but he slowly shook his head. "You know it's not. That doesn't mean I'm giving up—"
"I don't expect you to. And I'm not asking you to." Daryl clapped him on the shoulder. "We just need to come up with a plan."
"Where do we start?" The question came from Boomer, who had been standing quietly in the corner until now.
Daryl stepped back, his gaze sweeping across the room, pausing on each man before landing on Mac. "We start by talking to TR and finding out what she knows."
A protective wave swept over Mac, surprising him with its fierceness. His hands curled into fists at the idea of these men surrounding TR. Intimidating her. Questioning her. As soon as the thought came, he pushed it away. These men were his brothers—they weren't going to surround TR or interrogate her. Daryl was right—they needed to talk to her, find out what was going on. They needed every detail, no matter how small and insignificant it might be.
But he still hesitated, wanting to shield her for as long as possible. To protect her. The last fourteen hours had been pure hell on his nerves—he knew it had been worse for TR. He wanted to let her sleep, just a little longer. Wanted to let her stay lost in warm dreams before waking her and dragging her into cold reality.
"She's still sleeping."
Daryl moved over to the leather sofa and sat down next to Wolf. "Then we wait."
Chapter Five
TR lay in bed, her eyes closed, the covers pulled up to her chin. She still wasn't warm, although she thought maybe that was more psychological than physical. Heat brushed across her face from the vent above the bed and the weight of the covers alone should be enough to keep her warm. The blanket was fleece and the comforter was down-filled, both more than sufficient to melt even the iciest glacier.
But she still felt chilled, thought she might never truly feel warm again, even if she dove head-first into a firepit.
It wasn't the chill that had awakened her, though. It wasn't even the light streaming in from the hallway, which was nothing more than a pale glow, weak and filtered through the narrow gap in door. The door was mostly closed, cracked open maybe an inch or two, just enough to let that hallway light in. And there was no light peeking through the heavy curtains that were pulled closed in front of the window by the bed.
No, it wasn't the chill or the light that caused her to stir to consciousness. It was the smell of food, something warm with a hint of spice that teased her nose and made her stomach rumble with hunger.
How could she be hungry, after everything that had happened? Last night was a nightmare, the images haunting her mind in flashes. Taunting her. Toying with her. Not all at once—it would be easier to deal with if that was the case. If the memories—the images—came at her all at once, she could just face everything head-on, confront it and be done with it.
Maybe she should do that now. Just focus on what happened, let the images play out in one long movie instead of those nightmarish flashes.
She squeezed her eyes tighter and forced the night to replay in her mind. Driving along the dark road.
Thinking of the hours ahead.
Wondering if Mac would accept her invitation to come inside when they got to her apartment, or if he'd play the gentleman he was and say no.
The curve in the road that circled the pond, the bumpy asphalt just a little slick from the icy pellets falling from the night sky. She wasn't worried—she drove this back road frequently as a shortcut, knew the twists and turns, knew the hills and valleys and which spots iced up faster than the others. She wasn't driving fast at all, still getting used to the rental car. She wasn't worried—
Headlights, appearing from nowhere, surprising her. Blinding her.
The impact of her car being hit from the side, a frightening moment of helplessness as it raced toward the pond.
Then...nothing but blackness. An odd sensation of floating. Of not existing.
And then—
TR's eyes snapped open as the breath hitched in her chest, freezing her lungs. She curled her hands around the edges of the down comforter, stared at the shadowed ceiling and forced herself to count to ten. To breathe in and out, slow, deep breaths until her heart no longer felt like it was going to explode in her chest.
She closed her eyes on a frustrated sigh, suddenly irritated with her reaction. It was stupid, this feeling of panic that overwhelmed her whenever she tried to remember. She knew what happened, every painful second of it. At least, most of it. So why did she panic every time she tried to replay it in her mind?
It made no sense. Worse, it made her feel weak. Helpless.
Her stomach rumbled again, the sound finally distracting her. How long had it been since she last ate? Hours, at least. Not since the hors d'oeuvres at last night's party. Mac had brought up some oatmeal when she got out of the shower but she hadn't been hungry then, hadn't been able to bear the thought of putting food in her mouth. She'd been too tired, too drained. Too...too numb to do anything but fall face-first onto the bed.
She looked over at the nightstand, empty except for a bottle of water and a small clock. It was one of those old-fashioned clocks, with a big round face and numbers that glowed a pale green. It had two bells at the top, with a small hammer between them that would make an ear-piercing noise when it released and hit each bell, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, until you threw it across the room or beat it into submission with a sledge hammer. It was the kind of clock you had to wind-up. Or maybe this one worked on batteries. Either way, the clock must be broken because the time couldn't be right.
7:18
She leaned closer, blinking to clear her eyes, just in case. The second-hand was moving, marking the passing of time with each tiny jump. If she listened, she could even hear it, the faint tick-tick-tick of each passing second.
The second hand swept past the large twelve, causing the minute hand to jump.
Click.
7:19
Her stomach rumbled again, a little louder this time, more insistent. TR muttered under her breath then threw the covers back, sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Was it really that late? Had she really slept that long? Maybe.
She couldn't be sure, because she didn't remember what time she'd left the hospital. Didn't know what time they got here to Mac's or how long she'd been in the shower. For all she knew, she'd only been asleep for an hour.
Or maybe the clock was wrong and it wasn't that late.
Maybe she was wrong and it was really that early.
She glanced at her wrist, already knowing her watch was gone but still sighing in frustration when she saw nothing but bare skin where her watch had been. She couldn't even look at her phone for the right time, because that had been in her tiny purse and who knew where that had ended up.
She glanced around the room, searching for another clock, but there was none. The room, while not exactly spartan, held nothing but the basics. Dresser and mirror. Two nightstands. A chair tucked into the corner. The large bed she was currently sitting on.
The old plank floor looked like it had been recently refinished. There were several small area rugs in deep reds and greens but they were the only real decoration. Every surface was neat and clean, empty of clutter, so unlike her own dresser and nightstand, which held a variety of things ranging from her e-reader to ponytail holders to lip balm to little trinkets she had picked up here and there, as well as the occasional article of clothing that missed the hamper.
TR glanced at the chair in the corner. Nope, not a single piece of clothing hung from the back or rested on the floor underneath.
Mac must have thought she was a total slob the last time he'd been to her place.
She pushed the thought away, recognizing it for what it was: avoidance. It was a skill she had a feeling she'd become better at over the next few days, until she was able to come to grips with what happened.
Better to focus on what she could handle, instead of what she couldn't control.
With that thought in mind, she finally stood and made her way out of the room, following the warm, spicy aroma that made her stomach rumble with hunger. The oversized sweatpants sagged to her hips and she yanked them back up, twisting the waistband in her hand to keep them in place. Even the socks Mac had given her were too big, the excess material bunched around her toes. She took extra care with each step, not wanting to trip and fall. The last thing she needed was to break an arm or leg.
There were four more doors off the wide hallway upstairs. Curiosity sparked inside her and she almost gave into it, wanting to peek around. Were they all bedrooms? Maybe one was another bathroom.
And why did a single man like Mac need such a big house?
TR ruthlessly pushed the curiosity—and the twinge of jealousy—away. There was no other woman in Mac's life—he wasn't the kind of man to play games, of that she was a hundred percent certain. Although thinking in terms of "another woman" was pushing things, implying that she and Mac were together when they weren't.
One kiss. That was all they had shared. One kiss, nothing more.
And could she possibly do anything else to avoid thinking of what happened after that kiss? Because she knew—as sure as she knew Mac would never play around—that he was going to have questions. That as soon as she went downstairs, she'd be forced to remember everything that happened last night. Not just remember it, but recount it in detail.
And she wasn't looking forward to it, not when she knew Mac didn't think the accident was really an accident.
Fine. Let him ask his questions. She would answer. Maybe that would help her get over the irrational panic that simply thinking about it caused. Just rip the proverbial bandage off and let it go.
Yeah, sure. She could hope.
But first she wanted to eat. Surely Mac would let her do that much. Why else would he be cooking?
Probably because he's hungry.
TR frowned at the little voice, promptly told it to shut up, then made her way down the stairs. Carefully, holding onto the railing with one hand and the oversized sweatpants with the other so she wouldn't slip and slide down on her ass.
The downstairs was quiet, the kind of quiet that came from being empty. Would Mac have left her here by herself, without even telling her he was going somewhere? She didn't think so. And she didn't remember him coming into the room. Then again, with what he did, maybe he didn't have time to tell her. Maybe he just left a note before running off to save the world.
Not that she really knew what he did, not exactly. Dash around the world and save people from the bad guys? Yeah, something like that. She thought. Maybe.
No, he hadn't left—she could hear voices coming from the back of the house, from the same direction as that spicy aroma. It was probably the television, or maybe a radio. That made sense, because she didn't think he had company.
She resisted the urge to peek around the sprawling downstairs—she could ask Mac for a tour later—and made her way down a central hallway behind the stairs. The voices were a little louder, still muted enough that she couldn't make out words. Probably definitely a television, the volume turned down low so it was nothing more than background noise. She did the same thing sometimes, when the quiet was just too loud and she couldn't focus, when she needed that noise humming in the background.
She readjusted her grip on the waistband of the sweatpants, pulling them back up to her waist, then pushed open the door.
"I hope you saved me some because I think I'm starving—" She skidded to a stop, her feet nearly sliding out from under her as a tsunami of testosterone battered her. Five heads swiveled in her direction. Five sets of eyes stared at her, their reaction ranging from...well, she didn't know, because she couldn't read any of their reactions. Not even Mac's.
Her first instinct was to turn and run. That's what any sane woman would do when confronted by the sheer masculinity facing her. Her second instinct—who was she kidding? There was no second instinct. And she couldn't act on the first because she was frozen in place, unable to move, even when one of the men spoke.
"Looks like Sleeping Beauty decided to join us."
A second man leaned back against the large table in the center of the room, his head tilted to the side. Light reflected off his thick blonde hair, giving him a regal air that belied the danger TR felt simmering just below the surface.
"Nah, not yet. Sleeping Beauty needs a kiss from the prince before she wakes up."
Mac was suddenly standing beside her, his hand hovering near her shoulder, not quite touching her. A scowl wreathed his face as he stared down at the man who had just spoken.
"I will snap your fucking neck if you even think about it."
Chapter Six
A bowl of chili sat near her elbow, only half-eaten. The chili—and the cornbread that had accompanied it—was delicious, with just the right amount of heat that lingered on the back of her tongue.
It wasn't the taste of the chili that stopped TR from eating. It wasn't even because she was full—she could probably finish that bowl and a second one on top of it with no problem. At least, she could have if not for the five men staring at her.
There was something about being watched as you were trying to eat that killed your appetite, no matter how good the food was. Add to that the fact that the five men watching her could be a walking advertisement for Heroes-R-Us and yeah, no. No way could she finish eating, not without worrying about dribbling chili all down the front of her shirt.
The front of Mac's shirt.
She reached for her glass of milk and took a small sip, trying to remember the last time she'd had milk. Did cream in her coffee count? Probably not. And who would have ever figured Mac for a milk-drinker? Then again, with his size, maybe he drank a gallon a day. Maybe that's why he was so big—
And yeah, she was falling head-first into that whole avoidance thing again. Not that thinking about Mac was a hardship—which was just one reason to stop doing it. Thinking about Mac would lead her to think of last night. Of that soul-searing kiss, and the one after that and the one after that...then what might have come later. What might have happened if they had made it back to her apartment—if not for the accident.
It should have helped that she knew four of them. At least, she'd met them before. Mac, of course. And Daryl.
Ryder Hess, although they kept calling him Boomer. He was the one Mac had sent to babysit her when her car had been vandalized at the train station.
Right after her meeting with the Senator, the meeting that had left her confused and wary. The same meeting that had caused the hair on her arms to stand up, for reasons she still didn't understand.
Jonathan Reigler, who happened to be married to Samantha Reigler, a hockey player for the Chesapeake Blades. It was Sammie's story that had led her to meeting Mac. And it was their wedding—Jonathan and Sammie's—that she had attended with Mac, almost a year ago.
The same night she had propositioned him only to have him turn her down and tell her they could only be friends. That was the last night she'd seen Mac, up until two weeks ago when she had walked into the offices of Cover Six Security, looking for him.
She narrowed her eyes at Jonathan and briefly considered dumping the rest of her milk over his head. Maybe she was doing nothing more than projecting her own frustration but surely, he deserved something for...for what? For somehow being connected to Mac?
No, it wasn't his fault that she'd made a fool of herself at his wedding. That didn't mean she couldn't briefly fantasize about a little payback, even if it wasn't deserved. Not that she'd get far, even if she wanted to. There was something about the way he was watching her, with one eyebrow cocked in her direction and the briefest hint of a smile on his face that told her he somehow knew exactly what she was thinking.